The Time of the Turning
by DracoNunquamDormiens
Summary: Post-OotP, AU. Harry's life turns into a whirlwind of trouble, worse than before. He's got to grow up, but will he manage to live long enough to even start his sixth year at Hogwarts? Ch.21: Diagon Alley under attack!
1. A Safe Haven

**Disclaimer**: I do not claim to own any of the characters, places or situations that are J.K. Rowling's original and wonderful creations. I just live in my little Potterland, borrow them and put them through their paces.

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**The Time of the Turning**

**By** DracoNunquamDormiens

**Chapter One: A Safe Haven**

Privet Drive looked much like it ever had, a quiet little street lined with near-identical houses, well-tended gardens and flashy new cars parked in the drives. The owners of the cars – well-to-do men who looked nearly as identical to each other as their houses did – were enjoying what seemed to be the beginning of a better summer than the last in the company of their families; their gardens had recovered from the previous year's draught, the play park had been repaired, and the rest of the world was shut out of their self-imposed borders, with the sole exception of all those tiny, most trivial of matters that were the subject of gossip amongst the inhabitants of this and the surrounding streets.

One could safely venture to describe Privet Drive as a homely sort of street, where respectable citizens lived and raised their equally respectable children, in a peaceful, familiar atmosphere. If one were to take a stroll along this stretch of pavement, the smell of roses and recently cut grass would waft one's way; the laughter of young children as they splashed in their paddling pools, or rode their bicycles racing each other for ice-cream would fill one's ears, and – if one was well-to-do enough to look at – the neighbours would wave and inquire about one's well-being and destination, offering their knowledgeable advice as to which direction would be most suitably taken.

This description of said street in the outskirts of Little Whinging, Surrey, could most effectively be summed up in one word: Predictable. And yet, this encompassing word did by no means wholly define Privet Drive, for at least in one house it did not apply, much to the chagrin of its inhabitants and hidden glee of their inwardly bored neighbours.

Of course, if one just happened to stroll by, unknowing of all strange doings in this particular place, and were to attempt to find it, one would most certainly be stumped. For, as all other things in Privet Drive, it played its part perfectly, outwardly blending in with the scenery so seamlessly, that no stranger would be able to correctly pinpoint its location. Nor did the inhabitants of the house show any outward signs of abnormality.

Mr. Vernon Dursley was the director of a drill-making company called Grunnings; his wife Petunia and son Dudley were no different from the rest of the inhabitants of the street. To the untrained eyes, they were a perfectly respectable, happy, loving, and predictable family.

The sole manner of knowing there was something amiss at Number Four Privet Drive was through the whispered information the neighbours were only too eager to share, or even the Dursley family's comments, for rarely was the one responsible for such strangeness seen openly about:

_He was fifteen now,_ the more knowledgeable neighbours would say, looking around their shoulders as if afraid someone would overhear them.

_He is a hardened hooligan, who has spent the last five years mostly at St. Brutus' Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys,_ they would add without hesitation. What his crimes were, nobody knew for sure – although they would be strangely forthcoming with their own, albeit untested, theories.

This youngster had been the centre of many a conversation over the years, and consequently, everyone avoided him. It was him who besmirched the otherwise near-perfect street in the eyes of its inhabitants, particularly during the summers, as he returned every year for the holidays, much to the general discontentment. Everything about the little rascal was despicable, from his oversized, generally torn and dirty clothing, up to his jet-black, unkempt hair which stuck out at odd angles, not to mention the perpetual, intimidating scowl on his bespectacled face. He was a breathing embarrassment – as well as, by what Mrs. Dursley herself had said, a walking menace to everybody.

And today, the summer holidays would begin, which meant _the Potter boy_ – which was the name by which he was generally known around Little Whinging – would return to make the lives of the respectable families difficult. And to provide for hours of gossip at his expense, but nobody had ever really thanked him for that.

Presently, the _Walking Menace of Little Whinging_ was leaving King's Cross Station in the back of the car his uncle, Vernon Dursley, had purchased in December for a ridiculously high price, and was fighting the urge to give his balloon-like cousin a good shove in the ribs to get him to scoot over further away from him.

He decided against it, considering that; a) Dudley would probably poke him back, which meant the risk of a broken rib or three, and b) that it was a pointless thing to do anyways – incurring in the Dursleys' wrath was not his priority this summer, unavoidable as it might be; his mere existence daunted them, and they would waste no time in making it as miserable as possible, however his friends Mad-Eye, Tonks and Lupin had threatened them not ten minutes earlier. He'd rather enjoy a quiet ride to the place he was forced to call home.

The stillness, however, added to long minutes of watching the streets flick past from his window behind the passenger seat, led his eyes to droop with that sort of long-endured weariness he had experienced ever since Lord Voldemort regained his body, a little over a year earlier. His eyes closed, and he rested his forehead against the window, its coolness soothing the dull pain on the jagged scar that stood out clearly right above his right eyebrow…

He was jolted back to his senses quite painfully by a sharp tap on his head, followed by a loud screech. Harry Potter sat bolt upright at once, only remembering where he was when his eyes flashed at his blond cousin, who sneered back, a walking stick in his podgy hand.

Apparently Dudley still carried his useless Smelting Stick with him. Well, not so useless, was it? Harry's hand, which had instinctively taken a firm hold on his wand, stopped halfway in the process to pull it out and returned to rest on his knobbly knee, while he hastily soothed Hedwig, his owl, into silence.

"Don't smear the window with your filthy hair. And shut that stupid bird up."

Dudley's piggy, watery blue eyes glinted with satisfaction. He'd done it. His father would start telling Harry off, and that, in Dudley's mind, was an excellent way to while away the two-hour long ride back home.

Harry heaved a noncommittal sigh that held no anger, only tiredness, and returned to staring out the window in silence. Dudley waited for his father's booming voice to start complaining about his cousin, but nothing happened. Vernon Dursley merely glanced at the young wizard through the rear-view mirror with clearly suppressed anger and drove on.

Dudley furrowed his brow, thinking hard.

_This was completely unusual._ Never before had he been denied the simple treat of having Harry bullied by his parents, and yet, he'd loudly pointed out a major offence from Harry and received no reaction from either party.

Dudley scowled and glared at his cousin, who ignored him completely. Harry looked sleepy, he noticed. Probably he would get the chance to bang his head against the window. A slow smirk made its way to his pink face.

_Yes, that was a good idea. It was not like **his lot** could see them while they were driving around in the car, now was it?_ So he did something he had never done before in his almost sixteen years of life: he waited patiently for Harry to doze off.

Harry resisted the urge to rub his head where the Smelting Stick had landed. He could feel the bump rising even now, adding to the throbbing of his scar and his general discomfort at being crammed in the backseat with his porky cousin, who, despite all his diets and exercise, still managed to fill three-quarters of the backseat by himself. Harry wondered idly whether Uncle Vernon had the car reinforced so as to hold Dudley's weight.

_Maybe he would have to buy a loading truck next year, just to manage to fit Dudley in. That way, I might get the chance to ride in the back..._

He absently stroked Hedwig's feathers while he gazed at the streets and houses flicking past with unseeing eyes, ignoring the all-too frequent, uneasy glances his relatives – his only living blood-relatives, at that – shot his way.

Harry hated Privet Drive with all his might. Ever since he could remember, life there had been all but light and careless. He'd slept in a spider-filled cupboard for the better part of ten years, endured the abuse of his foster-family without any apparent reason, and this fact had not changed one jot after he started at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. The fact he now knew the underlying reasons for him to have been forced to stay at his Aunt's most of his life when virtually _any_ wizarding family would have gladly raised him instead did not make it any easier to return and endure, quite the contrary.

Baggy and torn clothes, poor meals and the absolute lack of personal property he could shrug off easily, unjustified hatred, vengefulness and utter disrespect he could not, no matter how hard he willed himself not to care.

His eyes were starting to water now, both out of the throbbing pain on the back of his head and scar, as well as out of tiredness; he blinked once or twice, in order to stay alert. They were out of London now, and Uncle Vernon went faster once on the motorway. Harry glanced at his watch, in a half-hearted attempt to shake his sleepiness off. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Dudley watching him intently. He turned to face him, an inquiring look on his face.

Dudley's eyes glinted back at him, but he said nothing, the intense look still on his porky features. Harry raised an eyebrow at him. Dudley averted his gaze, blushing slightly. Harry noticed absently his cousin's blush was every bit as blotchy as Uncle Vernon's, as he turned back to watching the roadside, trying not to fall asleep and ignoring the dull aches in his skull.

They continued in near-absolute silence for a long while, Uncle Vernon occasionally muttering about one thing or other, Aunt Petunia sniffling in response, and Dudley watching Harry, still waiting for him to drift off.

The problem with quiet and uncomfortable – not to mention long – road trips has always been the issue of one's mind wandering on its own and starting to ponder about those subjects that bother us most, and in this particular aspect, Harry Potter, although a wizard, was no exception.

Before long he was struggling to keep his thoughts at bay. He had parted with his friends a mere forty-five minutes ago, and the wave of loneliness, frustration and grief was already threatening to overwhelm him, hovering overhead like a fat, black rain cloud that was waiting for him to waver but a little to pour its contents mercilessly upon him.

He frowned, willing those thoughts back in the corner of his mind where they belonged, locked away from even himself. But they seemed to have a mind of their own, flicking images before his eyes, images he did not want to face;

Hermione falling to the ground, unconscious –

_I thought she was dead… Don't think about it – _

The sick crunching sound of Neville's nose breaking; Ron, summoning a brain in the Memory Room; Bellatrix' mocking baby-voice –

_Stop it, Potter!_ he told himself sternly, willing to steer his thoughts to something else, _anything_ else, before he invariably thought of Sir – _I said STOP it Potter, you **idiot**!_

Dudley had been watching Harry for the better part of the last quarter of an hour. At first, he did it because he was waiting for the chance to deliver another cracking blow to his cousin's head, but he was now mesmerised by the wide variety of expressions displayed on Harry's face.

His eyes were darting left and right, as if he were seeing something that was not really there – _Are all those weirdoes as loony as he is?_ – But what really caught his attention was the pained frown that settled on his cousin's face. Harry gritted his teeth as if in anger, then blinked and shook his head a bit, half-muttering something to himself. His heart was beating faster – Dudley could see the racing pulse on his throat – and a nearly imperceptible shudder shook him; Harry frowned deeply and released a breath, quietly, closed his eyes for a bit, and returned to stare out of the window with an expression of forced calm.

_What was that all about?_ Dudley surprised himself wondering. Harry's expression was usually guarded, carefully blank, and in short, impenetrable. Forgetting the fact he was supposed to hate Harry and that he'd been waiting to thwack him on the head as soon as he drifted off once more, unwittingly, Dudley himself was absorbed in a series of memories that came to his mind.

Those _Demeanors_, he remembered full well. He'd almost died, he'd felt it. He shuddered at the memory of the alley leading to Magnolia Crescent. _Harry must have felt them too, maybe even seen them. That must have been..._

A twitch at his side startled him from his reverie. Dudley turned at him to see Harry'd fallen asleep, his right hand clenching and unclenching, as if trying to grab something. He looked uncomfortable.

Dudley watched him for a moment, before poking him hard in the ribs with his Smelting Stick.

For the second time in less than an hour, Harry was brought to the waking world by the Smelting Stick. He woke with a low hissing intake of breath and shot the grinning Dudley a withering glare, his hand automatically reaching for his wand. Dudley's grin faltered at once, his eyes following Harry's hand and spotting the terrifying bit of wood. Harry actually smirked for a second, then returned to stroking Hedwig between the bars of her cage, again ignoring the now fearful Dudley.

The remainder of the trip, Harry remained awake, a sharp pain in his side adding to his present woes, forcing himself to think of Quidditch manoeuvres. It didn't help. His mind was drawn to a certain Quidditch match in his third year a huge, bear-like dog by the name of Padfoot had attended, so he forced himself to make a mental list of all defensive curses, jinxes and hexes he had learned, anything to keep a tight grip on himself while the journey lasted.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had apparently recovered from the shock they received as a courtesy of the intimidating Ex-Auror Mad-Eye Moody at the train station, and were soon talking amongst themselves, pointedly ignoring their nephew. Soon their talk turned to Dudley's boxing exploits, and Harry found a bearable distraction listening to their conversation and trying not to snigger at their excessive stupidity regarding their fat lump of a son for the rest of the trip.

Finally, Uncle Vernon parked the car in the drive of Number Four, Privet Drive and Harry got out of the car, covering Hedwig's cage with his jacket. After opening the trunk of the car, all three Dursleys entered the house, leaving Harry to deal with his luggage on his own.

The sun had set shortly after they left London, and crickets were chirping around him as he dragged his trunk into the house and deposited it in the lounge.

He took a deep breath. The house smelled like it always had, a sickly mixture of potpourri and Aunt Petunia's cleaning agents. As he carried Hedwig's cage to his small room, the words spoken by Dumbledore merely a week ago came to his mind again.

_"My priority was to keep you alive…You would be protected by an ancient magic of which Voldemort knows, which he despises …I put my trust in your mother's blood… While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort."_

Privet Drive, the last place he'd ever want to stay at again, was his best protection, the only place where Voldemort could not harm him at all.

_Whatever did I do to deserve this?_ Harry thought miserably as he wrestled the door to his bedroom open.

_Would you like me to make a list for you, Potter?_ the little caustic voice in his head immediately quipped. Harry frowned at himself, trying to open the door again.

He succeeded this time, apparently the doorknob needed replacement - _Better get used to having it broken_ – and stepped into the small room. A bare light bulb flickered weakly on as he turned the switch, but he squinted at the brightness of the electric light source anyway; candles were so much better in his opinion. He placed Hedwig's cage on the rickety desk and hurried downstairs to grab his heavy trunk. In the meantime, the Dursleys were having dinner in the living room, while watching what sounded like an action movie – there was a lot of shooting and screaming in it.

Once he had heaved all of his belongings upstairs, Harry opened his trunk, took out parchment and quill, and scribbled a note to the Order informing them of his safe arrival. He sent Hedwig away, whispering urgently to her she should be really, really careful.

He stood for a long while by the window, gazing at the overcast sky in the direction Hedwig had taken, trying to control the anxiety that had surfaced with the need of having her leave.

_That's all I need. Hedwig to be killed by them too._

With a heavy sigh, he flopped down on the lumpy mattress and stared at the ceiling, his mind oddly devoid of coherent thoughts, the feeling of confinement seeping into him and settling like a dead weight in his stomach. He did not fight it, nor did he feel up to fighting the tears of regret and grief and anger and frustration that began to well up in his eyes. A muffled sob escaped him, soon to be followed by another. He buried his head in his arms and let the feeling of misery engulf him at last.

As he was halfway through curling himself into a little tight ball of wretchedness and woe, a sharp stab of pain made him utter a choked gasp. One hand went to the tender spot, while he wiped his face dry with the other.

The distraction in the form of a string of colourful imprecations (many of which were part of Sirius' legacy) against one greasy bloater who, to Harry's luck, was still downstairs taking in his due dosage of ready-made entertainment and couldn't hear him, took his mind off his suffering.

Still clutching his side, Harry sat upright on his bed until he ran out of expletives and waited for the pain to lessen. Once it did, however, he had lost the inspiration to wallow in self-pity. He looked at the time, realising it was still early and that Hedwig would probably not return in a few hours.

He began to unpack his trunk, for lack of a better form of entertainment, mulling Dumbledore's words over. He had to stay here, in this oppressive place, so that he could be safe. Shouldn't he feel relieved, especially after what had happened at the Department of Mysteries?

Privet Drive was a safe haven for him, at least from the likes of Voldemort and his Death Eaters – Harry would never go as far as to describe the Dursleys as particularly harmless – it was a place where he could not be touched.

Really a great plan, headmaster, he mentally added, the more bitter part of him speaking up. You send me to bloody captivity so I can be safe until I get to kill the _censored_ like the bleeding weapon I am. Really good job, Dumbledore.

Suddenly, something clicked into place. He stopped straightening out the pages of _Quidditch Through The Ages_ and returned to sit on his bed as the realisation hit him.

Not only was he _untouchable_ here, he was also _free_, in an odd, rather puzzling way: Nobody was going to bug him to tell them how he felt, because _no one here cared_. Nobody was going to interrupt his brooding, trying vainly to cheer him up, questioning him about his latest nightmares, because they could not reach him – unless he went ahead and shared his thoughts with them. He was free and safe to think and put his jumbled thoughts and mixed feelings in order without fearing an attack.

He was well aware, if only subconsciously, that he needed time to come to terms with the Prophecy, with the Order, Dumbledore – himself, in short, with everything. He still felt alternately vindictive and stupid for yelling so much at his two best friends, whom he had, he reminded himself angrily, nearly gotten killed a week earlier. This mere thought cowed his rising anger into submission.

His face was still damp from his sudden tearful outburst; he swiped at the wetness in frustration. He'd shown weakness again. He had sworn to himself he would not show any weakness.

Not anymore.

_I owe Sirius at least as much,_ he reminded himself furiously, _don't I?_

Weakness, he had decided while still at Hogwarts, would belong to the past. A past to which his parents, Cedric, and now Sirius belonged, along with the old Harry, the one who was _just Harry_, no strings attached. This Harry had died the same minute Sirius had, to be replaced by... He didn't really know who or _what_, and a part of him didn't want to find out.

_Weakness led you to fall into that trap. Weakness **and** stubbornness **and your saving-people thing.** Not a good mix, mate. That greasy git was right again, wasn't he?_

He knew that while at Hogwarts, he was usually so burdened with all the goings-on that he could not really find the time to brood and straighten things out. But time was what he had now, and he _had to think._

And think he did.

A lot.

He thought, with no particular order, about Sirius, about every single minute he had spent with him, reread every single letter he had received, remembered every letter he had sent his godfather. He forced himself to think about the Triwizard Tournament, about Pettigrew's repeated treason, about the Third Task. About Voldemort. Dementors. Umbridge. The Quidditch Ban. Dumbledore's mistrust. The Department of Mysteries all over again. The Prophecy. Ron, being attacked by the brains. Hermione, lying unconscious after being hit by the curse. The baby-headed Death Eater. Bellatrix Lestrange, using the Cruciatus Curse on Neville. Sirius, falling through the veil. The Prophecy that linked him to Voldemort. The one that said his fate was to be a weapon. How it could have been Neville. His mother's screams as she died to save him. Voldemort, rising from the cauldron. Padfoot escorting him to Kings Cross. Sirius' barking laugh. Sirius, pushing him aside from a spell.

Once he started, he could not stop.

It was like having a hundred Dementors inside his head, showing him all his worst memories, pinpointing all his mistakes, all his blunders, so that even the smallest slip-up grew to the size of the graver ones.

Some time later – he could not tell how long, even if he had tried – he heard the Dursleys go to bed. Heard angry mutters about "the ungrateful brat wasting electricity like he owns the place," courtesy of Uncle Vernon, Dudley's grunting laugh in response.

Hedwig returned, and he absently fed her owl treats and refilled her water-tray, whilst ignoring the reply she had brought completely.

He remained locked in his dinghy little room around the clock; as he had guessed, nobody even bothered him. Later that evening,little amounts of food (often day-old or worse) were shoved through the cat flap Vernon had installed before his second year. He hardly moved to drink a little water, forced himself to eat, if only a bit, but he felt full of restless energy all the same.

This energy came from his pain, his grief, his anger at himself, at his foolishness and stupidity. His friends were in danger because of his stupidity. Sirius had died because of it. And there was nothing he could do to undo what he had done. Hermione could have died, and Ron wasn't fully healed yet, either.

He had always seen them as his friends, the Weasleys, Hermione, Neville even. They had always been there for him. Yet what had _he_ ever done for them?

He got them in danger, because he was the weapon needed to take on Voldemort. The fact that he hadn't known before now did not excuse him at all. What good would it do if he said he wasn't going to do that again?

It wouldn't bring Sirius back.

Nothing would.

Nothing would change what had happened.

Nothing he did could atone for what he had caused.

Ever.

But there was something he could do - not for Sirius, and most certainly not for himself. _Like he deserved **anything** after what he'd done._

He would take on Voldemort (how, he didn't have a clue), just like the Prophecy said. Alone, because he couldn't bear losing anyone else. He'd have to be strong, and brave perhaps – he'd do it for his friends.

"I'm a weapon, I'm a weapon, I'm a weapon," he repeated over and over, trying to let go of the empty feeling that surfaced.

It was a reaction triggered by the forced acceptance of his condition: He wasn't only a regular wizard, that had become clear from day one, but he was a being created solely for the purpose of ridding the wizarding world from the rampaging menace of Voldemort. What he felt, his opinions on the matter, his fears and wishes, all were irrelevant. He had to kill Voldemort or die trying, and he'd damn well better become accustomed to the idea, because there was no way around it.

It still did not ease the feeling of rebellion rising up in his chest; it did not prevent him from wishing for somebody to soothe him, to utter the words he needed to hear most: not to lose faith, that he would not be alone in this, that everything would be all right, because that someone would be there until the end.

He had ensured, through the very weakness he now so hated, that the only person in the whole world who could have said those words without lying died. He had ensured his loneliness, until he himself was dead.

It made him wish for death, for the first time ever, instead of life, if only to see Sirius again.

_But you can't die yet,_ The voice in his head reminded him. _You have stuff to do first, mate._

Outside the dimly-lit room, on a street graced with the blessings of ignorance, the Sun began to rise; birds sang their songs, still playing their part perfectly, as predictable as all inhabitants of Privet Drive. However, this predictability, this routine that had gone on for who knows how long, was lying upon the shoulders of the single being it felt endangered by.

Talk about irony.

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TBC.

Revised May 2004


	2. Strange Days

**Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any of the characters, places or situations that are J.K. Rowling's original and wonderful creations. I just have them stuck in my head, borrow them and put them through their paces.**

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**Strange Days**

Dawn came and went; Days and nights succeeded themselves; dishes with aging, cold food cluttered the door; Hedwig went hunting and returned, and Harry's overworked brain only registered dimly these changes were taking place when Hedwig pecked him hard on the forehead, reminding him, lost as he was in his own memories, his scar prickling continually, that he had to send a note to the Order.

"I'm coming, Hedwig," he grumbled irritably, squinting through his filthy glasses for a bit of parchment and a quill.

Eventually, he cleaned them on his t-shirt and replaced them with a scowl; if anything, he'd only succeeded in rubbing the grease and dirt in a little more.

He could not remember sleeping, nor being truly wakeful. The void inside him remained nonetheless. Alongside it, a new grim determination grew, momentarily stronger than the emptiness left in the huge chunk of his soul that had been - that still was and would always be - the space occupied by one Sirius Black.

He found an old Potions essay (graded 'D', by the way), ripped off a section that was devoid of writing, and dipped his quill into the inkwell he'd left on his desk after sending his first note. He'd left it open, and the ink had all but dried out, he absently noticed, suppressing the urge to groan in frustration, roll over and just forget about the stupid Order and letters. He just wanted to sleep. He yawned and slumped against his pillow, staring blankly at the piece of parchment in his hand.

It had an irregular shape, and parts of Snape's biting remarks could still be seen on the back (the word 'dolt' stood out clearly in poisonous green ink). The parchment was smudged, old-looking, torn, and frayed.

_Just how I feel_, he thought. _Frayed_. Harry yawned again, dipping his quill in the inkwell and withdrawing a thick, sticky paste._ A Liquefying Charm would fix this... too bad I can't do magic here._

In this dazed state, he nevertheless scribbled a short and blotchy:

"All's well. I'll write again in three days - Harry" to the Order, and he was just about to tie it to Hedwig's leg when a high-pitched, panicked shriek carried from downstairs.

It had roughly the effect on Harry of a bucket of ice-cold water thrown on a person sleeping in the sun.

Still clutching the note to the Order in his left hand, he grabbed his wand, leapt out of the room in three quick strides and poked his head cautiously around the landing, his heart hammering fast, and feeling very alert all of a sudden.

_Death Eaters. That was sooner than expected,_ Harry's mind supplied sarcastically, speaking in Sirius' voice. He squinted at the scene developing in the immaculate threshold to his relatives' house.

A dark-robed, hooded figure towered commandingly over a cowering Aunt Petunia, who shook in a manner that reminded Harry dimly of Neville during a random Potions lesson. He could not quite make out who it was, but he was certain it was a wizard by Petunia's reaction alone. The figure was talking to her in a low, menacing voice - he couldn't understand the words. He strained his ears --

_Who cares what he's saying? _the voice in his head prompted, unbidden. _Hex now, ask questions later!_

_Yes, that would be more sensible, _he decided.

He raised his wand even as aunt Petunia flinched visibly. He opened his mouth to whisper the incantation to stun the newcomer, when someone grabbed him quite roughly and unexpectedly by the scruff of the neck and sent him flying down the stairs.

Backwards.

Unexpected as this was, Harry managed to break his fall with the reflexes born of years of Quidditch and somehow managed, after slamming his elbow against a step, to roll around in the air and land catlike at the foot of the stairs, his wand in hand, still aimed with astonishing accuracy at the cloaked figure.

"There you have him – N-now leave my family alone." A trembling voice Harry recognised as belonging to Vernon Dursley said from the upstairs landing, before he could speak. Anger flared up inside him. Uncle Vernon had handed him over faster than blinking!

_Quite a sensible thing to do, really_, his mind unhelpfully provided. He commanded it to shut its trap.

"Who are you?" Harry snarled, surprised at how steady and firm his voice sounded in his ears, even as Aunt Petunia whimpered and scuttled towards Uncle Vernon as fast as her spindly legs would take her.

"Why, Potter, it's good to see you too." The hooded figure growled in a nearly pleasant voice Harry recognised at once.

"Mad-Eye?" he asked cautiously, still training his wand on the figure all the same.

"Yes. Now let us in and show some sense for once." Another, quite exasperated voice snapped from behind Mad-Eye.

"What are _you_ doing here?" It was Harry's turn to snap. His wand remained aimed at them, but his eyes darted to the windows on either side of the house. He saw nobody else.

"As much as you feel like you can freely abuse our time, Potter, I have more important things to do than baby-sit your sorry backside. Let us in, now!"

"Prove you're you." Harry answered flatly.

"You think you can order us about, you insolent little -"

"Oh, put a lid on it! Potter, I showed you a picture of the original Order of the Phoenix last year. Aberforth Dumbledore was on it." Mad-Eye interrupted with a harsh laugh that sounded a lot like Hagrid with a bad cough.

Harry nodded shortly, but his stance did not change, nor did relief at not being attacked by Death Eaters cross his face, which nevertheless washed over him. Instead, he kept his wand aimed at the newcomers.

"Okay, you're clear - what about you?" Harry asked the second figure in an exaggeratedly polite tone that did not, however, suffice to hide his loathing for Snape. He had to resist the urge to bat his eyelashes at the Potions Master, just to irritate him further.

He found it was a good alternative to letting out his anger at the present situation.

"I will have none of this nonsense, Potter. If you choose to act like a little imbecile -"

Harry barely managed not to roll his eyes.

_That's Snape, definitely._

"Come on in, Mad-Eye, _Professor_ Snape." Harry said curtly, lowering his wand and sticking it in his jeans pocket.

"T-they a-are not entering my h-house!" Uncle Vernon stammered from the upstairs landing, where he had been joined by a shaking Aunt Petunia. "The boy is fine! Why don't you just _leave_?" he added, anger seeping through.

"We are here to _ensure_ Mr. Potter is being properly treated," Mad-Eye growled, lowering the hood of his cloak. The sight of his scarred face and uncanny magical eye were enough to send the Dursleys flying to their room. He chuckled. It was a raspy, guttural sound. "_Muggles_."

His magical eye rolled in all directions a few times, to fix itself on Harry, who was glaring at his Potions Master with an expression of pure contempt. Snape glared back, an equally intense loathing in his eyes. Harry felt Mad-Eye's gaze, and was made suddenly acutely aware of his disheveled state - he was only wearing the old, baggy jeans and t-shirt he'd left Kings Cross in, not having had the time to slip on any shoes - and his red-raw, shadowed eyes were standing out clearly against the sickly tone of his skin.

"So Potter, how are you?" Moody asked in what sounded faintly like a conversational tone.

"Fine." Harry said shortly, without losing eye contact with Snape. "What are you doing here? What is _he_ doing here, at that? I'd thought during the holidays I wouldn't have to put up wi--"

"Your _letter_, Potter." Snape sneered, interrupting Harry's rant before it even started.

"What's with it?" Harry snapped back, not giving the slightest indication he understood the Potions Master.

"You did not send it," Moody explained calmly, and Harry blinked.

"I _did_ send you..." he began forcefully, trailing off lamely as he became aware of the crumpled piece of parchment in his hand. He dropped his defensive stance immediately.

"You sent one _four days ago_, Potter," Snape said angrily. "If you are unable of the simple task of counting up to three, then you're thicker than Longbottom."

"I... I was just going to send it - I must have overslept," Harry muttered, his pale face reddening slightly.

"You're not resting much, are you?" Moody cut in.

Harry shrugged dismissively and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, catching on with what he had really caused by not sending Hedwig off on time.

"Not really, no. Er... would you like a drink?" he said, feeling suddenly very tired, not to mention uncomfortable.

"A drink. How _appropriate_."

"_Severus_. I'd like a glass of water, Potter." Moody said, his magical eye fixed warningly on Snape, who scowled most eloquently.

Harry led the way to the kitchen, where he dropped his crumpled-up bit of parchment on the table and poured Mad-Eye a glass of water from the tap before slumping on a chair.

"You had us all in a right state last night when your owl didn't make it," Moody commented, while he extracted his magical eye with a _squelch_ and poked it around in the water, where it swiveled and spun madly. "And when Arabella reported she had not been allowed to see you last night, we thought those Muggles needed a little reminder."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you." Harry mumbled, only then noticing his hands were trembling and his left elbow hurt like it had been trodden on by a rampant Hippogriff.

"_Sorry_. That word fixes everything in your little world, doesn't it, Potter?" Snape scoffed from the kitchen door.

_Not really, it doesn't. Otherwise I'd be saying it like a bloody mantra, wouldn't I._

Harry chose not to answer and stared blankly at the spotless kitchen table.

"I'm _sorry _sir, I just had to go and poke my overlarge nose in things I was _specifically_ forbidden to. _Sorry_, headmaster, I thought _Dumbledore's Army_ was a good name for my little fan club. _Sorry_, I didn't mean to nearly get my friends _expelled_ and _killed_ by Death Eaters. Sorry, I didn't mean to get my godfather _killed_ -" Snape simpered in a mocking voice, then his expression hardened. "_Weak_, Potter. That's what you are. Weak, reckless, inconsiderate, but oh, so _full_ of yourself -"

"Enough, Severus!" Moody's hand slammed down hard on the table, making the glass he'd set on it jump. His face was turned towards Snape, but his freshly-replaced magical eye was watching Harry closely for any reaction nonetheless.

Harry clenched and unclenched his hands, his eyes flashing in rage. He then did something that came as quite unexpected to Snape: he took a deep, steadying breath and met his black, fathomless eyes.

_You're not getting to me anymore, you overgrown impersonation of a giant African fruit bat!_

The furious glint was still there, but there was something else as well, something the Potions Master could not quite put his finger on.

"I _said_ I was sorry. I forgot to send the letter last night, I must have fallen asleep. What more do you want? _Sir_?" Harry said in a low growl that would have made Remus Lupin beam with pride any day.

"Remembering your sole responsibility to the Order would be quite some achievement, don't you agree? Or does your wallowing in self-pity fill your schedule so intensely we need to run here every three days?"

"If you feel so inclined, _Sir_, you may come visit as often as you like," Harry answered acidly. "I'm sure Professor Dumbledore won't mind. Although I believe I am quite capable of learning to count to three, if that spares me from seeing _you_ over the holidays again. _Sir._"

Moody actually gave a barking laugh at this, but Snape only narrowed his eyes.

_There it is again - what is different now? _He still could not tell.

"Does that fat uncle of yours usually push you from the top of the stairs, Potter?" Moody asked, his eye fixing itself on Harry's rapidly swelling elbow, which Harry held pressed against his body.

Harry gave him a grim, cheerless little laugh.

"Only when I get visitors who are on a hurry to see me."

"I believe you have a broken bone there. Here, let me check -" With this, Moody unceremoniously grabbed Harry's arm and fingered the swollen elbow, stretching and flexing the joint several times in quick succession.

Harry, taken by surprise at the sudden roughness, made no sound other than a sharp intake of breath - his attention was wholly focused on the searing pain that seemed to have spread from his elbow to crush his lungs, because he found that he couldn't breathe all of a sudden.

The more callous part of his mind was however, more interested in the actual feeling of the broken bones grating against each other, and he forced himself to concentrate on it, since its odd detachment from the pain was more convenient to cling on to than passing out in front of _Snape_, of all people.

"Yep, Potter, you've got your elbow broken all right. In three places, too - I believe we have to go to St. -"

"B-but..." Harry began to splutter in protest - he did not want anybody to get 'in a right state' because of him again, especially not at that particular moment, seeing as his carelessness had caused more unneeded worries.

"There's no need for that, Alastor, unless you wish to make the injury worse by crushing it more than you already have," Snape interrupted tersely, eyeing Harry with a calculating look that was only too familiar. It was the same look Harry had received when everyone found out he was a Parselmouth, when his name was pulled out of the Goblet of Fire, when he tried to tell him about Sirius being held captive by Voldemort. Harry held his breath, torn between causing a commotion among the Order and trusting Snape.

Moody promptly released Harry's arm, which the latter held gratefully to his chest, cradling it with his right hand. The pain he had managed to hold at bay for a few moments returned, quickly spreading to his chest, and even breathing became a difficult matter indeed.

"I can get the necessary potions to mend the bone," Snape went on, in a tone that revealed he would much rather eat undiluted Bubotuber Pus than help Harry in his present state. "But it will take me about an hour. By then, your dear Golden Boy will most likely be running a fever. Better get him to lie down before he collapses." he said, smiling quite nastily.

Harry bristled visibly at Snape's address to him, but wisely kept his mouth firmly shut and stood up, swaying a little. Moody immediately tried to steer him toward the couch, but he shook his head resolutely.

"They'll want to come down," he explained in a low voice that betrayed his weariness. "The Dursleys, I mean. I guess I'd better go up to my room."

"Suit yourself," Snape shrugged indifferently.

Moody and Snape followed Harry to the upper floor of the house, and exchanged a confused look when he stopped in front of a battered door, on which four padlocks and a cat flap had been fitted. He struggled a bit with the doorknob, pushed the door open - and stumbled on the dishes half-full of old food that had been adding up since he had arrived at Privet Drive.

Mad-Eye cut a grimace at the smell of rotting food that reached them, and Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Argh - stupid, effing, bloody dishes!" Harry muttered angrily, narrowly avoiding a fall and pushing the plates and stray bits of food aside with his bare foot before letting himself fall heavily upon his lumpy, unmade bed with a groan. Hedwig gave him a soft hoot and fluttered onto his stomach, sticking out her leg.

"Sorry, girl - I guess there'll be no letter today... unless you want to send a message?" he asked Moody. "What is it?" he added, when he noticed that both wizards had not moved from the door and stared at him as if he had grown an extra head and matching tail. He sat up again in confusion, letting Hedwig flutter back to her cage.

The sight would have been funny, had Moody not looked outright murderous.

"Potter." A growl.

"Yes...?" Harry asked wearily. His whole arm was throbbing now and felt very hot. He doubted he could move his fingers if he tried.

"What is _this_?" Moody pointed at the dishes littering the floor.

Harry blushed a little, but it could be due to the sudden bout of sweating that seemed to overcome him now.

"Well, I didn't feel very hungry, you see..." he said, sounding very lame to his own ears. "So my aunt...er, leaves something for me here."

"Through the cat flap." It was not a question.

Harry nodded mutely, stifling a yawn.

"And the locks?"

"Oh, those. Uncle Vernon fitted them before my second year. Same with the cat flap." A half-hearted shrug.

Snape raised an eyebrow. _So this is where the Golden Boy spends his summers... Pathetic._

Moody gave an exasperated sigh and vanished the dishes and rubbish littering the floor with a flick of his wand.

"Why didn't you tell us, Potter?" The tone was accusatory now.

"Tell you what?" Harry looked openly drowsy.

"About this."

"Oh, that was in my second year. They haven't used any of it since -" Harry stopped short. He didn't know how much was known of Mr. Weasley's flying Ford Anglia. He was spared, however, by Moody's next words.

"Except for the cat flap."

"Well... yeah."

"Are you comfortable with this?"

Harry shrugged indifferently.

"It's not like it's for such a long time anyway," he said nonchalantly. _Although every day in here feels like forever Moody, thanks for reminding me_.

"Well, Severus, you go and get the potions. Send someone else if you're so busy. I'll have a little chat with the Muggles." With this, Moody turned on his heel and made his way to the master bedroom.

Harry could not believe his ears. He sat up again, eager to see what Moody was going to do to the Dursleys, but black spots began to dance in front of his eyes. He shook his head to clear it, and when he opened his eyes again, he found himself face to face with Snape.

Instinctively he drew back, wincing a little at the stabs of pain the movement caused.

_Funny, how my arm seems connected to my backside..._

"Do lay still, Potter." Snape snarled, handing him a cloth. It was ice cold. "Keep this against your elbow and wait for me to come back. Can you handle that, or should I get a house elf to do it for you?"

Harry nodded dazedly, decidedly not rising to the bait, as Snape turned on his heel and hurried down the stairs, looking every bit as the feared and intimidating Potions Master at Hogwarts he was. Harry pressed the cold cloth to his elbow and repressed a moan.

_No weakness, remember? Weapons cannot afford to be weak. And you're a weapon. Don't forget that_, the voice that spoke in Sirius' tone reminded him unnecessarily. Harry leaned back against the wall, focusing on the pleasant feeling of coldness fighting the swelling of his arm instead of the sharp pain that didn't go away. He could hear Moody's angry voice from the master bedroom.

"...Bleeding cat flap! He was entrusted to your care, and you feed him through a_ cat flap_! When I told you to take proper care of him, Dursley, I did not mean you should feed him like an animal!" Moody was really getting into swing, to judge by the booming shouts and whimpering noises that trailed to Harry's ears.

Over the years, he had wished someone came and took him away from the Dursleys, but this urge for justice had somehow ebbed away in the face of his more pressing problems. He hated to admit it, but what Mad-Eye was doing did not make him feel happy or even satisfied; he felt awful.

The racket made him deeply uncomfortable, and he sincerely doubted the Dursleys would treat him any better after this. He'd have to pay for Mad-Eye's defence, and he would be forced to take his meals with the Dursleys in the future - not something to look forward to, for sure.

He got up slowly, pressing the icy cloth to his arm, and dizzily made his way to the end of the hallway, where Mad-Eye was still yelling at the Dursleys about how important Harry was to the world.

"Mad-Eye... _Mad-Eye_," he began, but Moody didn't listen. "MAD-EYE!" That had the intended effect. Moody turned his head, his magical eye still watching the ashen-faced Vernon closely.

"What is it, Potter?" Moody snarled, in a tone that was positively friendly for him, but which had to sound quite menacing in any outsider's eyes.

"Just... just stop yelling at them, Moody. They got the point; There's no need to bother them further," Harry said calmly, as if his relatives had just been having a friendly discussion with an old friend. He felt quite dizzy now.

Surprisingly enough, Moody did not argue further, but cast them a last withering glare, shrugged and turned away, ready to follow Harry back to his room.

"Remember, Dursley," he growled audibly at the very last moment. "You are being watched - and not just by me. Don't you dare forget that even for a moment."

"Gibberwubblegibber," was the only noise Harry discerned coming from the depths of the master bedroom. He made his way back to his own little room, slumping tiredly into his bed. Again.

"I believe that'll be enough for them," Moody growled, looking quite pleased with himself. "At least for the time being."

Harry managed a humourless chuckle.

"Potter, try and lie down properly. Snape might take a while to arrive."

"I'm fine, Mad-Eye... Just sleepy," Harry muttered, sounding both unconvincing and irritable.

"Potter, lie down."

"Whatever you say..." Harry reluctantly moved, his every muscle apparently connected to his elbow, to judge by the way it hurt to lie down as Moody had instructed. His eyes were definitely drooping now. He gave in to the feeling, and everything went black.

* * *

"Potter, wake up." Strong hands shook him, making him want to get away from them.

"Unghh," Harry groaned in response, without opening his eyes.

There was a derisive chuckle from somewhere nearby.

_What the hell...?_

"Sit up now, I do not have time for this."

_Snape's back, then..._

Harry obeyed, cutting a grimace as he did so, only to feel something cold and hard against his lips. He turned his face away from it as its pungent smell wafted to his nose. A hand supported his neck, turning his head to the glass again. Harry didn't open his mouth, though.

"Drink." came the snarled order.

So he did, only to recoil further at the taste and smell of the potion. A burning sensation filled his mouth and throat, and he gagged, fighting the urge to spew all over himself.

"Don't you _dare_, Potter. Now drink up."

Harry swallowed with some difficulty, and felt the grip on his neck relax slightly for a moment. The potion felt red-hot in his stomach, like a bad case of heartburn. He cut a grimace. The lingering taste of vinegar and liver remained, but he couldn't dwell on it - the hand was back, and the glass had seemingly been refilled with another concoction.

"Drink."

He did as he was told. This potion wasn't as evil-tasting as the other had been, but Harry sincerely doubted anyone would drink dishwater willingly.

The hand released its grip completely, allowing him to fall back onto his pillow with a low moan. He ignored the shuffling sounds of movement around him and did his best to ignore the mounting pain in his scar.

A blanket was thrown over him, but his foggy mind couldn't catch the words they were telling him. He wasn't even wholly sure who _they _were, at that...

The heartburn stopped gradually, but the pain in his arm didn't lessen. He felt groggy and sleepy, though, so he allowed himself a deep sighing breath, tuned the voices out, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

TBC.

Revised May 2004


	3. At the Corner of Wisteria Walk

**Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any of the characters, places or situations that are J.K. Rowling's original and wonderful creations. That, and I am broke, so suing won't do any good. Just so you know.**

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* * *

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**At the Corner of Wisteria Walk**

She had always felt contempt for her freak nephew, but she had never felt much fear of him; this boy had been easy to control, easy to keep downtrodden for ten years. _Almost_ ten years, she corrected herself, frowning despite the age lines frowning brought on. One more thing the brat was guilty of.

Then, of course, he had to go to that freak school of his and become a cocky little pest. _All her hard work thrown to the dogs._ But even she, trying hard as she might to ignore the signs, could tell the boy had changed, she mused, while buttering Dudley his third piece of toast.

He was different, somehow; well, more than usual, considering he was a freak to begin with. While the previous summer he had been snappish and scowling most of the time, this year he seemed - subdued, in a way, yet impassive... darker, perhaps? And, she decided, this grim, unreadable Harry was _definitely_ frightening.

He had been at Privet Drive for ten long days now, and while the first three had been uneventful enough, save for that annoying task of having to take his meals upstairs and shoving them through the ever so useful cat flap her dear Vernon had fitted years earlier. The freak had remained in his room all the time, and thus the Dursley family had been blessedly spared of his unnerving presence in the rest of the house.

Of course, she had heard his thrashing about in his room. At night, she sometimes awoke to his moans and badly muffled screams. Sometimes the boy even did it during the daytime, the nerve of him! So she had snuck a peek in his room one particularly loud afternoon, when the boy had been moaning for the better part of an hour in such a way that she couldn't hear her favourite soap opera over his insufferable racket.

It would not do to have those other monsters accuse her of mistreating the stupid little brat, after all, and, coupled with the fact that Vernon was to return home soon, she had felt compelled to see to it that her dratted sister's abnormal offspring shut up.

Petunia Dursley had seen many strange and abnormal things happen in her life. Not that she was ever the cause, of course. Some of these experiences could be classified as hilarious if one was an outsider (and a freakish one, at that!), but to her, these experiences had been downright horrible. It did not help that most of these experiences were – be it directly or indirectly – linked to the monster she had inherited as a nephew.

That particular afternoon, the third since the brat's arrival, upon opening the door to his bedroom, Petunia had had the worst experience ever.

Harry was thrashing about on the floor, his body shaking wildly, his hands clawing at his forehead as if trying to rip it off. His face was shiny with tears and sweat, and he muttered unintelligible gibberish, now and then crying out in pain.

Had Petunia Dursley been a trifle more caring, a tad more concerned about the boy spasming on the floor before her, she might have done something to help him.

She did nothing.

She glared at him as he tossed and turned, entangling himself further in the ragged blanket she had given him some four years earlier. She turned her face away in disgust as he twitched violently and upended a few of the plates of food - _good food gone to waste, the ungrateful brat_ - that littered the threshold of the too small - _and thoroughly undeserved_ - room she and her husband were forced to allow him to use.

She stared on as the boy gradually slowed in his jerky movements, until he was reduced to a shivering heap on the floor, which was littered with parchment, inkpots, books, and other things of the same abnormal nature she loathed in him.

_At least he's quieted down_, she'd thought with something akin to relief, when he abruptly moved again. She had instinctively taken a step back as he sat up suddenly, pushing himself up with his hands - only to vomit all over the floor. She had covered her mouth in disgust, unable to withdraw her gaze from the mess that had fallen on books, sheets, and what looked like a letter.

_The boy is a disgrace_, she had thought angrily, her eyes fixed on that - _abnormal_ - scar on his forehead. It was red and raw, just as it had looked that god-awful day she had found him on her immaculate doorstep.

Harry didn't seem to notice her at all; he didn't even seem to be awake, at that. He remained in this half-sitting position for a few long moments, gasping for air, before he heaved himself back on the bed with his left hand, waving the other at the sticky pool of sick on the floor and muttering something she didn't understand.

To her horror, Petunia saw every trace of vomit disappear before her very eyes. The boy had heaved a shuddering sigh and fallen fast asleep almost instantly, apparently oblivious of what he had done.

She had muffled a panicked scream and stumbled out of the room as fast as she could without tripping on anything. She had then shakily made her way to the kitchen, where she had collapsed on a chair, unable to think straight.

She had waited for one of those freakish birds to deliver an expulsion letter for the freak.

None had come.

Petunia Dursley shivered despite herself, remembering to turn the bacon before it burnt to a crisp. Duddy didn't like his bacon burnt, and she would not waste any more food on the freak than was absolutely necessary. _Not that he eats much, does he?_ She was certain he was just annoying her, knowing as he did that she hated to waste good food. Especially on him.

The day after this very incident, two of those mishaps of nature had darkened her doorstep again and demanded to see the brat. She had never felt so terrified in her life.

Vernon had sensibly taken the boy to them and rescued her. They had been angry at the boy for some reason. She had hoped it was because he had done that - that - _thing_ that other day, but apparently it was because he hadn't written to them. Then the disfigured monstrosity had yelled at her and her husband. Some utter nonsense about the boy being important to the world.

If he was _that_ important, she decided, the world could have him straight away.

_He is a walking disaster,_ she thought, _and dangerous. He had done... **that**... without his - his **thing**!_ What she would do if he did - _it_ again, she didn't know.

The boy had not been thrashing about at night or during the day since the other freaks had come, however. He had not given them the slightest indication that he remembered vanishing all that vomit without his – his... his _thing_, either.

Before long, Petunia Dursley was beginning to believe that it had all been a figment of her imagination.

Yes, that would be a nice, plausible, and perfectly _normal_ explanation: it was only a manifestation of stress. Even those freaks couldn't, after all, do that _thing_ they did without their... _things_. They were freaks, but they weren't certainly all-powerful, were they?

So far, she had seen that freak son of her sister's only at mealtimes, which suited her perfectly. The less they saw of him, the better. Not that he would ever care to display a behaviour that was satisfactory in her eyes. She knew he was eating even less than she served him – _good food gone to waste_ – and he was silent – _thank the heavens for small blessings_ – and constantly _brooding_. She figured she could serve him raw meat and rotting vegetables and he wouldn't notice.

Petunia served breakfast in four plates, leaving one less than half-empty. Harry chose that moment to enter the gleaming kitchen. Petunia nearly upended his plate in shock when she looked up abruptly. She hadn't heard him approaching at all, the freak!

Petunia narrowed her eyes at him, hating his every fibre for existing. He noticed, of course. He always did. He always tried to hide it, she knew, feeling strangely vindictive.

"Good morning, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley," Harry said in a hoarse voice. If his tone held no emotion, it was not quite a monotone, either. It was utterly neutral and every bit as unnerving as his unassuming countenance.

Harry settled into his usual chair and pulled the half-empty plate towards him, even as Vernon grunted his acknowledgement of him from behind his newspaper. Petunia shook herself unconsciously, resuming her fussing and cooing activities on her son, who, like his mother, hadn't given the slightest indication he'd noticed his cousin at all.

Surreptitiously however, Petunia was watching Harry like a hawk. He wasn't slouching miserably about anymore, she noticed, choosing to ignore the pallor on his face and the sunken, shadowed eyes that betrayed his strain. His body language, like his face and voice, revealed nothing to her. He seemed to be playing his part in a long-practiced routine to which he was indifferent.

Her eyes narrowed as he began pushing his food around on his plate for a while, stared blankly at it for a moment, only to push it around some more. He took a bite, struggled to swallow, only to resume his rearrangement of the bacon and eggs on his plate, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Mrs. Figg has requested you run an errand for her, boy," Vernon growled from behind the safety of his _Morning Post_. "And you shall go. Remember, boy, no funny business or those freakish displays of yours. At two o'clock sharp, her house."

"All right," Harry answered noncommittally without looking up from his plate. A moment or two later, he made to stand up, but Petunia's sudden glare made him stop in his movement.

"Finish up," she snapped. "I shan't waste good food on you."

Harry shrugged in response, suddenly holding two slices of bread in his hands that she was certain _hadn't been there before_.

Petunia's eyes widened. The boy had just done – he had _just_ – she didn't dare finish the thought. _Oh, no._..

If Harry was as shell-shocked as she was, he did not show it; he merely contented himself with fixing himself a sandwich with what was left of his eggs and bacon, and forced it down in a few bites, visibly trying not to gag. He then forced down a glass of water, took his plate to the sink, washed it, bade them a good day and left the kitchen even as Vernon, who had plainly not noticed a thing that had happened, left his seat, distracting her from her shocked state.

After Vernon and Dudley had left, however, Petunia noticed she had not taken in a word that had been said in the gossip section of the morning news. She briefly wondered why, until she remembered the incident with the freak. Was it possible that the boy had grabbed the bread from the bread basket without her noticing?

So it came to be that, for the second time in one week, she made her way to the boy's bedroom. She entered without knocking, as was her wont, and looked around the too-small space. It seemed that the boy had finally tidied up after himself, she noticed with something like satisfaction. It certainly smelled and looked that way, at least; the freakish books were all stowed in that odd box he called a trunk, and the sheaves of parchment littered only the half of the rickety desk that was not occupied by the birdcage.

Harry was sitting at the desk, seemingly engrossed in a thick, leather-bound book.

"Do you need anything, Aunt Petunia?" he asked, without looking up or turning around.

"H – how d-d-did you know...?" Petunia shrieked. This boy was becoming more frightening by the moment, and it was all she could do to keep herself from bolting out of the room straight away. She clutched the door frame for support, and tried to hide her trembling from the monster that sat not six feet away from her, in the good clothes she was forced to place on his ungrateful back.

Harry turned around and looked at her with something that might have resembled amusement, had his eyes not been so dull or the rest of him so tired.

"I heard you coming up," he explained, raising an eyebrow at the sight of his aunt. "So I supposed you needed me to do something."

"W-where did you... did you get..." Petunia paused, a thought striking her. If he – the _boy_ – didn't know of that strange ability, then maybe, _maybe_ it would become no threat for her and her family. Then again, if he _did know_ of those things he had done, then she could snap at him to stop doing it, couldn't she? But... but if she told him he could do – _that_ without his – _thing_, then _he would know_ and he might threaten her family. She had to find out, but in a way that would not arouse any suspicions from the pest's part. She looked him over, trying to figure out how to squeeze that vital part of information from him.

They remained in an uncomfortable silence for a stretching moment, until Harry couldn't help himself and asked, "Get what?" in his low, hoarse voice.

"The toast. I did not serve _you_ any," Petunia snapped back, regaining her usual manner in a second.

Harry furrowed his brow, looking earnestly puzzled. _What was she on about? **Toast**?_

"Well? What do you have to say about it? _Where did you get the bread from_?" Petunia shrieked angrily, probably incensed because of the blank look he was giving her.

"Bread basket," he answered tentatively. "Are you all right, Aunt Petunia?" he added, sounding truthfully concerned.

"Don't ask questions," she snapped back automatically, turned on her heel, and left the tiny room. Inwardly, she felt thoroughly relieved the boy hadn't done – _that thing _after all.

Petunia Dursley allowed herself a little smile. She had slyly gotten all the information she needed and the little monster was none the wiser. She entered the kitchen, poured herself a cup of tea, returned to the sitting room, and enjoyed a perfectly normal day after that.

* * *

_What was that all about?_

Harry stared at his aunt as she abruptly left, and turned to his Transfiguration book again.

_Has she lost it for good? _Toast_? She's checking whether or not I had **toast** this morning? I'm not even allowed _**toast**_ in this bloody place now?_ he thought furiously, crushing his quill in his fist.

Since Mad-Eye and the overgrown bat had come, he had lost most of his inspiration to be constantly wallowing in self-pity, but the feeling of misery and frustration was growing by the minute, and with it, a barely-repressed urge to break something.

He wasn't picky about what he broke, either. Just as long as it broke.

Hard.

Preferably loudly, too.

Harry made a grunting sound in the back of his throat. Mad-Eye had made it quite clear, in a letter Harry had torn to pieces in anger, that the Order would not be too forthcoming with information where he was concerned. He was to be the Boy-Who-Lived and be good and lie low. And leave the house as little as possible.

He was being held in storage, like the weapon he was.

_Get used to it,_ he reminded himself._ That's the only purpose you have left. To be used as the thing you are._

Harry had known, there and then, that despite Dumbledore's assurances that the Order would change their policies regarding him, he was looking forward to what seemed a maddening repetition of the previous summer. All he had gained from Moody's and Snape's visit was a talking-to, a broken elbow, a vile-tasting bone-knitting potion, and a day's worth of stabbing pains in said elbow, followed by three days of stiffness in his arm. Not that he really paid much attention or care to anything anymore, either. The war was the only important thing now.

No information whatsoever was included in Moody's message, and Harry was once again reduced to reading his uncle's morning paper in secret, and the Daily Prophet at dawn. Needless to say, the muggle paper offered next to no information, and the Daily Prophet was vague and ambiguous at best; apparently wizarding reporters liked to fill pages upon pages of their conspiracy theories and rumours instead of actually _reporting_, and Harry was tired of reading between the lines of inaccurate stories.

He had also been forbidden to send any letters, to anyone who wasn't an active member of the Order, at least. As if he wanted to write as much as a grocery list at the moment, anyway. He had even gone as far as writing some notes to the Order in advance, so as to avoid having them visit again. They were lying next to his wand on the desk, tied up, sealed and dated so Hedwig (who had apparently learned to count to three better than he had) could snatch them up and deliver them on time without having to peck Harry half to death every time post was due.

Ron and Hermione hadn't written to Harry all week either, and he attributed this to their near-fatal encounter with those Death Eaters at the Department of Mysteries. Harry's heart sank another inch, but much of his anger faded at the memory of his two best friends lying in the Hospital Wing, bandaged and filled to the brim with potions.

_I dragged them into it,_ he reminded himself again. _I deserve worse than I've gotten, and it's for the best if they stay away from me._

As much as it hurt him to admit it, he had to face the facts: he was a breathing danger to be around, and he forced himself to accept the rules the Order had sent, fighting the urge, yet again, to just smash his window into bits.

And now, Aunt Petunia was telling him off for eating some toast, the stupid cow! It hadn't even been _a lot _of toast, just two slices!

_Wait a second. _Harry interrupted his outraged argument when a realisation hit him like a hammer.

_She **didn't** say you weren't allowed to have toast – she asked **where you took it from**. Weird..._

Thinking back to earlier that morning, Harry remembered _thinking_ he wanted toast, but not actually _reaching for it_ at all...

_Could it be...?_

_Could it be I did accidental magic again? _

His insides went cold. He didn't want to repeat the previous year's experience with the Ministry of Magic. Three times' worth of notices and a hearing – which had been more of a trial, actually – were _really_ enough for a lifetime.

Then again... all his previous experiences with accidental magic had taken place when he had been upset or frightened, and this morning he had been neither. Could there be a form of accidental magic that was triggered by sheer boredom?

In that case he'd never make it back to Hogwarts, not with such a bleak prospect of holidays to look forward to.

_But..._ the thoughts that spoke in Sirius' voice piped up, _accidental magic is usually less focused than making toast appear out of thin air, isn't it?_

While Petunia Dursley was contentedly watching yet another gossip show on the telly, Harry racked his brains for an answer to the riddle she had unwittingly posed. Try as he might, he could not remember reaching for the bread basket, nor could he come up with a reasonable explanation, except that he had done magic. He would have had to stand up and then cross from his seat to the pantry to get the bread otherwise, and he was certain he _hadn't_ done it.

_So, let's assume you **did **do magic, mate,_ his mind argued reasonably. _Where is the Ministry owl expelling you, and the half dozen Order owls telling you off? In fact, where were those owls when you set a boa constrictor on Duddikins, or when you turned Miss Maccombe's wig blue in primary school?_

"I don't _know_," he growled irritably at his own reasoning. _What did this mean? Could he do wandless magic? Was that even allowed or something?_

He glared at the bright sunlight pouring in through the open window, every bit as fiercely as it had the previous year. All this thinking made him thirsty, but he hoarded no secret death-wish by frying pan; his aunt was probably in the kitchen, and he'd have to face her in order to get some water.

He scowled at the sunlight, wishing himself away into some arctic land where he wouldn't be so sweaty and smelly and thirsty. It would be so easy to simply summon a glass of ice-cold pumpkin juice, like they did all the time at Hogwarts.

_Heh, yeah, just like Aunt Petunia was saying about the bloody toast – **accio glass of water**,_ Harry thought sardonically, wriggling the fingers of his right hand in the appropriate wand movement and shaking his head in disbelief whilst opening the door to get his drink. _**I** can't do wandless magic; even she ought to know that. Lupin does it all the time, yeah, and Dumbledore, not **me **–_

It was Harry's luck that Petunia was mesmerised by a commercial about a new and improved cleaning agent at the moment, because a glass of chilled water floated up the stairs and sailed neatly into his hand.

Harry stared blankly at the glass in his right hand, his left still resting on the faulty doorknob, unable to believe what he had just done.

His mouth suddenly felt very dry, his stomach did a back flip, and his heart began to drum a very promising solo. His mind, however, seemed to have gone to reside elsewhere.

"Bollocks." he muttered, for lack of a more interesting thing to say. He then shut the door and staggered to his bed, still staring at the glass.

"Chuffing hell, I'm an idiot!" he blurted out, launching into a string of choice expressions of Sirius' to vent the mixture of emotions he was feeling all of a sudden; disbelief at what he'd just done, dread at the consequences, outright panic at being expelled from Hogwarts **_over a bloody glass of water!_**

_He hadn't used his wand._

He checked on it, just to make sure, and there it was, on his desk, exactly on the spot where he'd left it, looking completely harmless.

"Bugger."

He waited for the Ministry owl to arrive, barely daring to breathe, the glass of water – the _corpus delicti_, as it were – still in his hand.

Nothing happened.

There was no owl, no angry Ministry or Order members on his doorstep, _nothing_. He sipped the water after what seemed an hour. It was still cold and oddly refreshing. Harry wanted to wail in frustration. He didn't want to feel refreshed; he wanted _not to be in trouble_.

_Then again, you do seem to want a great many things lately, don't you?_ The cynical little voice was back, having seemingly recovered from its shock, and began coaxing the rest of his brain to move.

Harry suddenly remembered, with surprising detail, the letter he had received the previous year for casting the Patronus Charm in Magnolia Crescent. Only that wasn't the only spell he'd cast that night – he'd cast Lumos while looking for his wand, and he _hadn't been touching it_ while casting it. He had thought nothing of it, either, assuming the Ministry had simply chosen to expel him for the greater offence, namely the Patronus, and ignored the Lumos spell instead. Harry's heart skipped a beat. Could it be the Ministry couldn't trace wandless magic?

Come to think of it, he had never been contacted by _anyone_ when he'd done magic before Hogwarts, even at number four, Privet Drive.

Maybe the Ministry could trace the wand and not the caster?

He remembered how Dobby had done magic in the summer before his second year – could it be that the Ministry traced the magic of house elves? Or perhaps they traced a certain type of magic – like, say, a hovering charm or a vanishing spell? Or maybe the magic of house elves and the one from wands was similar enough to be confused? Because it seemed they hadn't caught on to his summoning charm a moment ago, had they? Nor had they censored the magic other witches and wizards had done at the Dursleys, for that matter, and therefore, it was not the place he was in.

Was it some weird, never-before-seen power Voldemort had given him along with his scar and Parseltongue? Was the Ministry simply too busy with Voldemort to bother going after him? Would they barge in later?

He glanced nervously at the repaired alarm clock on his bedside table. Half an hour had passed since he had cast that charm, and, if Aunt Petunia was right, some three hours had passed since he summoned or even _conjured_ the toast right in front of her nose... and he _hadn't been contacted_. The previous year he had received owls in a matter of twenty-odd minutes. Surrey wasn't really that far away from London, and surely Mrs. Hopkirk and Fudge – not to mention Umbridge, the human horned toad – would be positively _thrilled_ to expel him?

His mind was reeling.

_Maybe, just _maybe,_ they cannot trace wandless magic,_ he thought. That would explain why he had never been contacted before, and in the very least, it would explain why he wasn't yet expelled from Hogwarts...

_Think of the possibilities! _Harry's eyes lit up. _If they couldn't trace wandless magic... _On the other hand, maybe he'd just cast minor spells that were easily overlooked? What if he cast a major spell, just to make sure? His heart began to hammer in earnest, but this time it was out of excitement.

_What could be considered as a major spell?_ The Unforgivable Curses were out of the question, and he doubted he could pull them off without his wand even if he tried. A nice Vanishing Spell, perhaps? That was OWL material, wasn't it? Or maybe something more advanced, like a Patronus, would earn him expulsion?

Harry's heart began to hammer faster. He had to find out if this type of magic would be traced – if it couldn't be traced by the Ministry, he might just have stumbled upon a new means of defending himself. But, did he want to risk it? Did he _dare_? Harry fidgeted in his bed, remembering the words old Mrs. Figg had told him a year earlier: "Might as well get hanged for a dragon as for an egg."

He pictured the Order's reaction when they found out. _**If** they found out_, he corrected himself. Moody would skin him alive, he would. He'd surely be expelled.

Then again, did it matter whether or not he returned to school? The war was his sole purpose in life, not going to Hogwarts. He was born to fight Voldemort, why should he care if he went to school or about Quidditch and House Points and all that rubbish? Wasn't it more important that he find a way around Voldemort's apparent immortality, his superb duelling skills and evil world-conquering plans?

_Besides_, he argued sensibly, _it's not like it's going to work for sure, is it? I've never even tried it before today. Chances are, it's not going to work. If it does and I'm found out, the Order are going to do their nut_, he thought grimly.

"Oh, hang it all." he muttered impatiently, settling for a Vanishing Spell, and pointed his index finger at the glass.

_Evanesco_, he thought, concentrating on vanishing it.

Nothing happened.

He set the glass on the bedside table and pulled his Transfiguration book towards him, undeterred.

_Evanesco,_ he thought again, after quickly reviewing the chapter on Vanishing Spells. He felt foolish without his wand, and caught himself reaching for it to get rid of that tantalising glass that just wouldn't disappear, before he stopped himself.

Maybe he was doing something wrong… He'd gotten it right twice before, _three__times_, if he counted last year's Dementor attack.

Harry glared at the glass as if it held the answers to his questions, which it didn't, of course. He felt strangely disappointed; a few moments earlier, he was dreading to try and actually _succeed_ in doing some wandless magic. Now, he was pouting because it hadn't worked.

He racked his brains, trying vainly to think of a suitable answer to this riddle. Usually, you had to focus a whole lot on whatever spell you wanted to cast, and he hadn't been concentrating when he'd summoned the glass of water, had he? But now, when he was trying to do it properly, it just _didn't work._ He closed his book with a snap and made to replace it on the desk, scowling openly. It would have been cool, really, to be able to do some magic without his wand…

Mid-movement, he remembered how he had lit his wand the previous year, and something clicked into place. He had _needed_ light so badly back then, that the spell had worked – this morning he'd just realised he _fancied_ some toast, and not twenty minutes earlier, he'd been _thirsty_.

He'd been _willing_ the spell to work, or rather, he'd just _wanted_ something to happen to make things easier for him.

_Doesn't make sense, but still…_

_Evanesco_, he thought anyway, concentrating on _willing_ the glass to vanish, and doing absolutely nothing the way McGonagall had taught him in what seemed like another life. She'd be laughing her head off at the sight of him, pointing his finger at the glass like that, without a wand…

_**Vanish**, come **on, **you… Evanesco…_

Harry blinked.

The glass was gone.

"Dog's bollocks…" Harry muttered, feeling suddenly rather giddy. He'd done it again!

It was just like using his wand, really, come to think of it. He just had to forget it wasn't there. Or rather, imagine it was there. Or forget the spell.

Either way, Harry was suddenly all hyped-up and ready to try other spells on his furniture and school supplies, but what to cast? He opened his Transfiguration book again, looking for something suitable to cast, momentarily distracted from the brooding state of mind he had been in before Aunt Petunia paid him that unexpected, but now quite welcome visit.

His giddiness began to fade as he realised he would have to wait to see if his little plan had worked.

_That would be sensible, wouldn't it? _This time, his thoughts came out in Hermione's chiding voice. Inwardly, Harry cringed.

_How stupid can I get?_ He berated himself at once for his rashness, his stomach suddenly feeling like it would drop to knee-level. _Better not do any more magic, because if the sodding Ministry can track it, I'll go to Azkaban for sure. Voldemort would really like that._

He put his book away, feeling apprehensive now. How long would the owls take to arrive and tell him of his fate? How long should he wait before he dared to feel reasonably safe from punishment?

Who could he have asked about it, anyway? Who could have told him all about wandless magic and the like?

_Sirius would have helped,_ his mind answered at once. _He'd have helped you, Dumbledore be damned._

_But he's gone, and that's that,_ he mentally snapped at himself. _I got him killed. Why do I have to keep thinking of him all the time? That won't bring him back_._ And that won't help me find out anything about the wandless magic, either._

So the Order was out of the question. The less they saw of him this summer, the better. Ron would go to his parents for answers, so that was a no-go. Hermione would know, of course, but she was most likely out of the country, and she'd send him right off to tell Dumbledore anyway. And Harry wasn't entirely sure he trusted Dumbledore half as much as he used to.

So much for reliable sources. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that testing his theory out on his own had been easily the best option. Although that explanation wouldn't sit too well with anyone he knew, if the Ministry had indeed found him out.

He glanced at his clock, and blinked again. He'd been waiting for the owls to arrive for over two hours now!

_Does that mean what I think it means?_ he wondered, not even trying to identify the funny wriggling feeling in his stomach, which felt roughly like it was on a Gringotts cart. It certainly seemed the Ministry couldn't (or wouldn't) trace this type of magic, whatever it was. Because, and Harry was sure about it, they had never really studied the power of will in class, if that was what he was doing at all.

Once he realised he hadn't been caught, Harry's stomach slowly unclenched, and the anxiety he'd been feeling faded into nothingness again, leaving him every bit as hollow and frustrated as he had been when he woke up that morning.

Harry rubbed his scar irritably as it gave a particularly painful twinge. Could Voldemort know of this new ability? He shrugged indifferently. Voldemort could go and stick his weird Legilimency link up over a dozen different places, as far as Harry was concerned.

Harry's patched-up alarm clock rang at that moment, reminding him shrilly he was due at Mrs. Figg's in half an hour and he had to wash up before he left; he didn't want another talking-to today.

He didn't feel like going to Mrs. Figg's; it was probably just another way the Order had devised to check on him without bothering to drive the Dursleys up the wall, he supposed. Mrs. Figg had, after all, never expressed any kind of real interest in seeing him before the previous year.

Nobody had, actually. And, if he hadn't turned out to be the sodding Boy-Who-Lived, nobody would give a flying onion about him. Maybe the Order just didn't trust him to count to three or to write a stupid letter. They were probably thinking he couldn't bear the responsibility of writing to them. Or perhaps they just wanted to "ensure he was all right" or something along those lines.

Harry scowled at the clock. He had sent his letter on time, Hedwig had even returned, hadn't she? Why did they want to see him, then? His stomach began to clench again. Could it be they knew of his wandless magic? No, that wasn't it - Mrs. Figg had told Uncle Vernon yesterday.

Whatever the news was, he was certain it couldn't be good. He could feel even now that he wouldn't enjoy this meeting with the Order at Mrs. Figg's.

Harry picked himself off the bed, and started to change into a fairly clean set of clothes of Dudley's he'd received in his third year and which fitted him loosely, although much better than the rest of his wardrobe. His scowl was firmly in place throughout the process. He washed himself hastily, and made his way downstairs, feeling like he had just tied two buckets full of stones to his feet instead of his trainers.

* * *

He really didn't want to go to Mrs. Figg's. His scar was beginning to twinge again, and he'd much rather spend the afternoon sleeping; _anything_ was better than having to see the Order once more, he mused, while checking his wand was tucked away safely in his overlarge jeans.

Harry knew now they worried only because he was the one who could win or lose them the war, and that was the real reason for their concern. Had he not been the Boy-Who-Lived, probably nobody would give a rat's arse if he lived or died.

Once again, the feeling of frustration and hopelessness threatened to rise and speak up. He repressed it successfully, but that didn't prevent it from hurting like hell.

He stepped outside, not bothering to tell his aunt, who was engrossed in another commercial and would have snapped at him anyway, that he was leaving.

Outside, the sun was shining, and a light, hot breeze slightly ruffled his wet hair. There was a strange calmness about, not even Number Seven's children were out.

Harry inwardly shrugged at the sleepy calmness of the scene and started walking down Privet Drive towards Sycamore Walk, a short street that would bring him to Magnolia Drive, still frowning at his rotten fate and trying to understand why it had to be him, of all people, who was selected for it.

So he was supposed to kill Voldemort or be killed by him, that much was clear to him. He'd consequently been kept in Privet Drive, thinking he was alone all these years, just so he could grow and do the killing he was born to do.

_Nice_, he inwardly growled, _really a nice outlook on life. At least I won't have to worry about NEWTs anymore, let alone getting a job. Voldemort will have me for a midnight snack._

Dumbledore had made his choices for him, he'd kept the truth from him, kept his destiny - no, that was the wrong word. _Purpose_ was nearer the mark - until mere two weeks earlier, when the headmaster had had no other choice but to tell Harry.

_If everything had gone according to Dumbledore's plans,_ Harry thought, _I wouldn't have known until five minutes before I was sent off to face Voldemort._

Sirius had wanted to tell him, Harry remembered. He'd wanted to tell him on his first night at Headquarters. Sirius had known all along, but, just like Harry, he'd been serving a purpose that was part of _Dumbledore's grand sodding scheme of things_.

_Not that I have a say in this, of course_, he thought bitterly, despite his efforts to just accept his fate, which at the moment looked all but good. He was expected to sit quietly and be a good boy and allow the Order to juggle and jostle him about like the pawn he was, preferably with a smile on his face, to make it all nicer.

He had no choice; some day, he would inevitably have to confront Voldemort. To some extent, he didn't really mind about that part of his purpose - he had confronted Voldemort or his past self once a year for the past five years now, after all. No, what really bothered him was the mistrust he was surrounded by, the fact that he was receiving no help whatsoever in this imposed quest against Voldemort. It hurt more than his forced imprisonment or all other injustices he'd suffered so far, which could easily be explained away. Dumbledore had been giving Harry's life priority to his happiness, hadn't he?

But how could anyone think he, Harry, was strong enough to defeat Voldemort, the single most evil and powerful bastard ever to set foot on the earth and so end the war once and for all, but at the same time believe he wasn't strong enough to take the _mere news_ of this task? It simply made no sense.

_Great thinking, Dumbledore, You keep me alive and **healthy**, in a sodding hellhole, by the way, just so I can get to do what you want me to. But you don't tell me how to go on about it. Thanks a ton, headmaster._

Harry reached the corner of Sycamore Walk and Magnolia Drive and glanced at his watch. It was still five minutes to two, and he was already very close to Mrs. Figg's. From where he stood, he could make out the corner of Wisteria Walk, not thirty yards ahead around the corner that linked Sycamore Drive with Magnolia Drive, right in the direction the play park was in.

A feeling of foreboding crept down his spine, making the back of his neck prickle rather uncomfortably as he approached. Harry looked warily around himself. Suddenly he felt aware of the stifling stillness of the air, and the surrounding quietness became ominous rather than calming. What was odd was the absence of the usual sounds to be heard in the area at two in the afternoon of a weekday; lawn mowers, the clink of cutlery being washed, tellies and stereos blaring out of open windows, that sort of thing. But the streets were deserted, and the stillness was complete. Not even a bird sang on the trees. Instinctively, Harry had backed away towards the nearest wall, and was now standing close to a large bush that had been pruned in the shape of an ostrich, and which he had to sidestep in order to get to Wisteria Walk and Mrs. Figg's, which was right at the corner. Absently, he rubbed his prickling scar and tried to make sense of what was happening.

_Don't be stupid_, he chided himself, _there's nothing wrong here. It's just… oddly quiet._ His scar twinged harder, and the sense of foreboding increased. Was he losing it? Still, he couldn't shake off the feeling that something was not quite right. Like the whole street was waiting for something. It was still as a graveyard – _hang on_. The thought of a graveyard reminded Harry of the only one he'd ever visited, that night Voldemort got his body back.

With a pang, he suddenly realised the feeling he had wrongly qualified as foreboding, was actually _anticipation_ – on Voldemort's part. Harry half expected to see Dementors swooping down on him where he stood, still concealed by the hideous ostrich-shaped bush, as he chanced a peek towards Mrs. Figg's, which was as quiet as the rest of the neighbourhood.

_He's not here, he can't be here. He can't_, Harry thought, fighting the wave of fear that washed over him. _I'd know, because of my scar. He's not here._

_He can't touch you as long as you're in the place where your mother's blood dwells,_ he heard Dumbledore's voice in his head.

Harry froze, only now understanding the implication. _Meaning, I'm **only** safe at the Dursleys'. Thanks again headmaster, for the pointer._

Of course, Malfoy would have found out everything about the Squib who'd testified at Harry's hearing, from the overlarge mouth of Fudge himself! The Death Eaters would know she used to baby-sit him, and perhaps there was a Death Eater polyjuiced into his batty old neighbour in the house at that very moment!

_Come on, even the Death Eaters wouldn't be so daft! _the little voice in his head snorted. _Polyjuice Potion in Privet Drive,_ his brain added, _that's almost as weird as those Dementors last year._

_But,_ he argued with himself, _the Dementors were here, weren't they?_

He should have called Mrs. Figg to announce he was going, to make sure she wanted to see him, why hadn't he thought of that before?

Heart hammering wildly, Harry backed away further behind the bush and drew his wand, trying not to panic. His body seemed to ignore the order his brain sent out, because his hands were sweaty and his heart was trying to run for it on its own, to judge by how fast it was beating again.

The rational part of his mind nevertheless continued to fight for control. Was he being overly paranoid? Was Mrs. Figg at home at all? Come to think of it, he had seen her last only at his hearing, nearly a year earlier. Had the Death Eaters – _If_ there were any in her house at the moment – killed her just to get to him? He moved a bit further behind the bush, until the only way anyone could have seen him was by stepping behind the ostrich themselves.

_You'll be a laughing stock if anyone finds you hiding in here,_ his mind commented on this movement. Harry, however, peeked over the ostrich's wing, looking for any indication of magical presence; an out-of-place shadow, any movement around him, even Mrs. Figg peering out her window…

After a few moments of intense looking and listening in on the silent and thoroughly unchanging scene, Harry was beginning to feel increasingly stupid.

He straightened up slowly, already berating himself for his unfounded paranoia. The feeling of foreboding didn't leave him, though, and five minutes later, he still hadn't stepped out from behind the bush or turned around the corner.

Maybe it would be a better idea to just return to Privet Drive and pretend he'd forgotten her errand, Harry pondered, half angry at himself for his unfounded fear. Or perhaps he could just call her, or even ask her to fetch him.

He began to extricate himself from his hiding spot, which concealed him nicely but was rather narrow, when he felt something grab his ankle from behind, causing him to suppress a panicked yelp.

Harry twisted around franctically, but saw nobody behind him. The grip was still there, though; so he looked down instead – and saw a very large striped cat pawing at his trouser leg.

He almost laughed out loud in relief. And there he was, thinking a Death Eater had made a grab for his leg!

"What is it, you?" he asked the cat – _Mr. Tibbles_, as per his red collar – but his voice was no more than a low whisper. Mr. Tibbles, the cat, stared sternly at him, and turned his attention to Number Eleven, Wisteria Walk. Harry looked at it; it seemed to be stalking something, to judge by the crouched position it had taken. It certainly looked ready to pounce, and the hairs of its back were raised. Just like Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, used to behave when he was close to Scabbers, Ron's former pet rat, former Gryffindor, former Marauder, former Order member, and currently a Death Eater, whom Harry delicately referred to as "that $#&! bloody traitoring, double-crossing bastard."

"You sense it too, don't you?" Harry whispered to Mr. Tibbles, who lay his ears flat on his head in response and continued to stare at the house.

Oddly enough, the confirmation that something was amiss at Eleven, Wisteria Walk, helped Harry calm down enough to get his bearings together. The feeling of loneliness left him now he had company, even if it was just one of Mrs. Figg's cats, and his heart seemed to realise the futility of hammering wildly, and consequently slowed its pace to a nearly normal rhythm.

Harry weighed his options. He didn't really know just how he had managed to crouch behind the bush unheard, but he was certain his extrication from it would not go unnoticed. So he decided to wait until whoever was waiting for him got desperate or bored and stepped outside, before venturing out himself. He just wished it was quick; his scar was hurting more now, and he felt very uncomfortable in here.

He did not have to wait long; moments later, the door of Mrs. Figg's opened, and out stepped none other than Harry's batty old neighbour, carpet slippers and all, muttering something or other about the time under her breath. Harry was already beginning to move out from behind the bush, an awkward apology at the ready, when Mr. Tibbles gave a low, warning hiss and he froze, watching Mrs. Figg as closely as the cat did.

She stopped some three feet to the left of the ostrich, and seemed to be talking to the wall of Number Twelve in a tense, hurried voice.

_Someone in an Invisibility Cloak_, Harry thought uncertainly. _Either it's that, or she's lost the last few platters in her cupboard_.

Harry's heart stopped outright before it resumed its wild hammering with a vengeance – The voice coming from Mrs. Figg's mouth was a deep and hoarse one.

"He's not here yet, and the _hour's almost up_," Mrs. Figg was saying nervously to the wall of Number Twelve.

"Goyle, you idiot! Get yourself back in there and wait for the signal! Someone might see you!" the wall answered in an urgent hiss Harry knew too well.

Lucius Malfoy was standing not three feet away from Harry, in a deserted street and under an invisibility cloak, while Harry was crouching behind a bush with a stern, but otherwise useless cat for company and nowhere to go.

Either this was a bad joke, or it was just another example of Sod's Law.

Harry was inclined to believe the latter.

* * *

TBC. 


	4. So Far, So Close

**Disclaimer: The Potterverse is not mine, it's JK's. The song down there :points: isn't, either. :shrugs: BUT MacPherson _is_ mine. Not that he's any good, but hey!**

**Here's chapter four. I hope it lives up to your expectations. I changed the chapter completely a few days ago, and I feel it's lacking something. Tell me what you think about that, because otherwise I'd be editing it for ages and would most likely end up tossing it away.**

_"There is no dark side of the moon really. Matter of fact it's all dark."_

_**Eclipse** (Pink Floyd, 1973)_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter Four – So Far, So Close**

"Get your sorry backside inside, you fool!" Malfoy hissed again, louder than before. "He might come along as we speak!"

Not five feet away, Harry swallowed, trying to think of a way to escape, and coming up with nothing.

"But..."

"Just – get – back – in – there!" Malfoy hissed furiously, and Harry watched Mrs. Figg - no, _Goyle_ – retreat slowly towards the house, muttering about how badly the potion tasted, and why it couldn't have been Crabbe taking it. Harry heard Malfoy make an exasperated growling sound from underneath his invisibility cloak.

_What now?_ Harry thought desperately, wishing himself anywhere but where he was. However he looked at it, there was no escape. He didn't have any means of protection, except for an ugly bush, no company except for a cat, which would most certainly be of no help whatsoever, and to top it all, he didn't know how many Death Eaters had been sent over to get a hold of him.

He shifted his weight slowly to his right leg, since his left was beginning to prickle, and closed his eyes for a moment, weighing his very limited options. He had to get back to Privet Drive, that was clear, but how could he do it? Perhaps, if he used a Reductor Curse on, say, the wall of Number Twelve, he could gain enough time to run from behind the bush and reach the Dursleys' without getting hit? That would only work if he managed to knock Malfoy out in the process, which was hard, as he couldn't see him.

He took a steadying breath and steeled himself to just make a break for it. _Come on, Potter,_ he chided himself furiously, trying to ignore the mad drum roll his heart seemed to insist on keeping up that day. The semi-confined space where he was only increased his feeling of claustrophobia, and he was getting impatient and panicky.

_Get a bloody grip on yourself. It's not like you haven't been here before._

Harry shifted his position, ready for a sprint – Mr. Tibbles chose that very moment to dash out from beneath the bush and fling himself onto the fake Mrs. Figg with a loud hiss.

"Aargh, no!" the fake Mrs. Figg flayed her arms around wildly, tripping on her slippers, in a desperate attempt to get rid of the sudden, violent attack she was subjected to, while Mr. Tibbles clawed and bit and scratched her, undeterred. For a moment, Harry could do nothing but stare, wild-eyed, at the scene developing before him.

Catching himself, he snapped into motion, grabbing the chance the cat had provided and dashing out from behind the bush, towards Sycamore Walk – and crashed headlong into something invisible that grabbed him firmly by both arms.

By all looks of it, Crabbe Senior had also been invited to the party, Harry realised, a moment too late.

_Some hero I turned out to be,_ Harry thought, angry at himself for his stupidity. _Can't even properly run away from them._

"This was almost too easy," Crabbe's grunting voice snarled from nowhere, while invisible hands adjusted their grip on Harry, who was struggling frantically against them. "Oy, I've got him, Lucius!" he called, but was ignored; Harry, held as he was in Crabbe's death-grip, strongly suspected it was largely due to the fact that Lucius Malfoy was trying to help Goyle get rid of the furious Mr. Tibbles.

He struggled harder against the gorilla-like arms holding him fast, kicking and twisting around, in vain. Blood was pounding in his ears, panic winning the battle for control. Not too far ahead, he could see Malfoy trying to curse Mr. Tibbles into bits, but failing each hex due to his rapid movements. The cat was still spitting and clawing Goyle half to death, but it didn't stand much of a chance, not in the long run.

Harry managed to twist one arm free and tried desperately to loosen the vice-like grip of Crabbe's – who was staring blankly at what could only be Malfoy's attempts at a rescue. He managed to free the other, but Crabbe just took hold of both his arms with one hand and wrapped his other arm around Harry's middle, lifting him clean off his feet like anything, and squeezed so hard Harry began to see dancing spots of light before his eyes.

"_Stupefy_!" Mr. Tibbles dodged the red jet of light, clinging on to Mrs. Figg's rollers. "Damn that cat, Goyle, get rid of it already!" Malfoy shouted, his invisibility cloak sliding off his shoulders, revealing an oddly flushed face and a shock of dishevelled silver-blond hair floating in midair. At the same moment, Goyle managed to grab Mr. Tibbles by the tail and held him at arm's length, so as to provide a clear shot.

"No!" Harry shouted, struggling harder to get away from Crabbe's hold, fighting for air. He wrenched a hand free, stretching it towards the cat as if trying to reach him, as if he could keep it from being hexed –

Harry suddenly felt something break. All air was driven from his lungs – Crabbe had responded to his movement by tightening his grip on his chest in a painful parody of a bear-hug.

"_No_…" Harry wheezed, still straining to reach the cat. He couldn't breathe... _Just let go already!_

Lucius Malfoy turned around and spotted Harry, quite effectively restrained, and grinned at him, slowly and deliberately aiming his wand at the wriggling cat in Goyle's hand.

"_Reducto_!" Malfoy shouted, pointing his wand at the feline – It seemed to him that the world had come to a standstill. As if in slow motion, Harry saw the beam of light leave it, saw it stretch towards Mr. Tibbles – _No!_ his mind repeated furiously. _Just – let – me – GO!_

Crabbe released his hold on Harry with a surprised yell, and backed off as if burnt. Harry landed spread-eagled on the ground, his wand flew out of his hand and out of sight, and Mr. Tibbles sailed neatly out of Goyle's and towards Crabbe an instant before the curse hit.

He tried to get up and run, fighting for breath, the spots dancing in front of his vision growing larger, even as the Reductor Curse hit Goyle's still outstretched arms. A dull crunching sound was heard, immediately followed by Goyle's scream of pain. Raising his head, Harry saw Mr. Tibbles, who appeared to have landed in midair, make for what could only be Crabbe's face with a vengeance. Acutely aware of the goings-on around him, Harry raffled himself up, looking for his wand amidst the ongoing howls of pain coming from Goyle and the furious grunts and curses Crabbe uttered while trying to rid himself of the mad cat.

He felt rather than heard the Severing Charm that was cast his way and rolled sideways away from it out of pure instinct, crashing into Crabbe and sending them both flying onto the ground. He felt the charm sharply graze his ear but didn't stop to check, scrambling away from Crabbe as quickly as he could and seeking shelter behind a car parked at the corner of Wisteria Walk and Magnolia Drive.

Clutching his side for support, Harry tried to catch his breath and make sense of what was happening, here of all places, in the middle of the day. He looked at the scene developing in what had to be the greatest muggle neighbourhood ever to exist, and found himself trying to grasp the sheer bizarreness of it; Goyle, who was still in Mrs. Figg's likeness, was howling at the top of his lungs, his arms bloodied and hanging limply at odd angles, his mousy grey hair falling out of the rollers it was in, slippers lying a few feet away; Crabbe awkwardly disentangling himself from the invisibility cloak, which he left in a heap on the ground – Mr. Tibbles was still doing a rather thorough job of slicing up his face, Harry noted, wiping some blood from his tattered ear.

That left Malfoy.

Trouble was, Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

_Oh, bugger..._

Harry's neck prickled, and almost immediately, he felt a sharp jab on the back of his head. A soft laugh reached his ears, chilling his blood more effectively than any amount of cursing and yelling could have accomplished.

_Well, at least you know where Malfoy is now,_ the voice in his head commented. The rest of him was numbed by fear.

"Come now, Mr. Potter," Malfoy drawled, directing his movement at wand point. "Did you honestly think you would stand a chance against us? Get up."

Harry did as he was told, suddenly aware that the pain in his ribs had gone. Probably the fear had driven it away.

_How does that work?_ he wondered absently, as Malfoy directed him back to Wisteria Walk, where Crabbe had grabbed Mr. Tibbles, took aim, and sent the cat flying against the red brick wall of Number Twelve. There was a sick crunching sound, and he slid to the ground, probably dead. Harry gave a start and made to reach the cat – but Malfoy stopped him with his wand.

"Ah, ah, ah, Potter – It's not very wise to risk your life for a dead animal," Malfoy drawled again, shoving Harry in the back to walk on. Harry bristled at the almost comforting tone he was using. "The Master shall be pleased," he added, sounding revoltingly pleased with himself. Harry suddenly noticed he could walk without his knees buckling beneath him.

_Come on, Potter – snap out of it_.

"He'll be beside himself with satisfaction when he receives his little present. You have caused him many unnecessary worries, you know." Malfoy paused for a moment, and Harry could feel those cold grey eyes boring into the back of his skull, felt the satisfied smirk on Malfoy's face as he regarded his _prize_. His temper flared.

_Sirius didn't go through it all **just** for you to be done away with so easily, did he?_

Harry turned his head and glanced sideways at Malfoy, his shocked expression hardening.

"So sorry to hear that," he muttered sarcastically, giving him a grim smile. "You'd think the oh-so-great _Voldemort_," his lips quirked higher when Malfoy flinched, "was busy _only_ trying to do a schoolboy in. Some master you got yourself, Malfoy, that he can't even come and get me on his own."

Malfoy's face contorted into one of fury, but he caught himself and managed a soft chuckle, which looked pained in Harry's eyes.

"Yes, you _shall_ be sorry, Potter, when I deliver you to my Master." The voice that left Malfoy's lips was almost pleasant and eerie to hear. Harry's scar gave a twinge. Voldemort was oblivious to what was happening, it seemed; he was still on tenterhooks about something.

"But I do not believe he will mind much if you are a little more battered than you are now, don't you agree? I for one, wish to hear you scream. _Crucio_."

_It not like that was unexpected,_ Harry thought, gritting his teeth as the sudden, white-hot pain shot through him, consuming his every thought, his every perception. His knees gave way, and he fell heavily on the pavement. His senses, spiked to awareness for some odd reason, were burning. His scar felt like it was going to burst, as was the rest of him. It was endless, the sharp pain rendering every second longer, allowing only one thought through its barrier.

_Please let it stop; make it stop, please..._

Harry fought for control and lost. He couldn't help it – a single deafening, agonized scream left his mouth. He squeezed all air from his lungs, but couldn't draw breath again… the world swam out of focus… he fell to his knees –

The mind-numbing pain stopped as abruptly as it had come, and he looked up at his captors through fogged eyes. They were laughing as if this were some inside joke. Harry found he could move again, although it seemed as though his every cell were still on fire. He pushed himself up on his hands, not caring to fight the bout of nausea overcoming him, and retched. His crushed ribcage protested, but he couldn't muster the strength to wince. He wiped his mouth with the back of his leaden hand and glared at the Death Eaters surrounding him, determined not to give them the satisfaction to see him cower.

For some reason, that just made them laugh harder.

All the while, his mind was frantically trying to keep alert and to find a way out of the mess he'd gotten himself into. There had to be a way to get away from them. There just _had to be_.

_My wand... If only I had my wand... Merlin's spleen, this **some cock-up.**_

"I think he's rested enough – my turn," Crabbe grunted, aiming his wand at Harry. "_Crucio_."

For the second time, Harry's line of thought was cut short. He was on fire. It was agony, and Malfoy's and Crabbe's laughter rang in his ears throughout the process. If anything, it made his ordeal harder to bear. Harry screamed himself hoarse, tears trickling down his face in boiling rivulets.

_Please, stop… Just let me die; **please** make it go away…_

It was never-ending, the way he was held in the curse. It obliterated his determination to fight, drew away his every thought, leaving only the desire to make it stop, the wish to make the pain go away. They held him under the Cruciatus for such a length of time, that he was no longer uttering any sound, though his mouth was stretched in a silent scream; his voice had long failed him, and the tension in the rest of his body left no space for breathing. No longer able of coherent thoughts, he focused on the only thing he had left – the pain itself.

He found he could think again. It was still agony, but somehow, his brain was moving on its own, deciding even now what to do, clinging on to something other than the powerlessness he had.

_The wand. I need to get my wand back. Need to get away from them. If only they would stop… _

"Enough, Crabbe – we need to leave something for the Master, after all, and it won't do if he's broken," Malfoy drawled, seemingly put off because Crabbe had had more fun with their prisoner than he had.

They released him from the curse moments later, and he landed face forward on the ground, in a twitching, trembling heap, missing the puddle of his own sick by mere inches.

"Unnggh…"

He turned away from the sight of his breakfast, and ended up on his back, unable to lift his head enough out of the pain the movement brought with it. He could hardly tell the difference from moments earlier – what with his burning chest and the searing pain brought on by the smallest movement, he was not truly certain the curse had been lifted. He forced himself to breathe, to fight the wave of unconsciousness that tempted him with release out of the corner of his thoughts.

_Can't pass out – not now. Need to get away…_ Harry thought, feeling as if everything were happening in slow motion around him. Or maybe it was that his brain had gotten tired of processing everything at top speed. He gasped for breath.

_Need to get away from the pain… Wand… Need… wand._

His wand, he remembered dimly, had fallen out of his hand some time earlier. He cracked an eye open, only to screw it shut again and avert his face, blinded by the brightness of the early afternoon sun. Crabbe made a disgruntled noise from nearby.

_Need… wand… get away from them… Not again. They **won't** get me again,_ he decided more lucidly, clenching and unclenching his hands, testing if they were up to the challenge. They seemed to obey his brain's orders, and Harry decided that if his hands were working, the rest of his body was up to it, too.

_Ready…_

"However," Malfoy said pleasantly, upon seeing the scowls on his sycophants' faces, maybe there's time for one more… _Crucio_."

This time around, however, Harry rolled away from Malfoy, dodged the jet of light and leapt to his left, heading back to the ostrich bush and to where he believed his wand was lying. Every movement felt like he was going to tear apart, but he ignored it, the thought of survival being the only one on his mind. A string of hexes and curses –mixed with expletives the like of which not even Sirius had been capable of – flew his way, hitting the pavement, the windows of number twelve, the bush – he heard a Cutting Hex being shouted, and felt something hit his arm, even as he flung himself around the corner – where he landed on something soft and slippery and fell crashing to the ground, completely winded.

_Crabbe's invisibility cloak!_

Rolling over with a massive effort, he covered himself with it in a smooth motion and flattened himself against the wall, almost colliding with Malfoy, who had immediately followed in his pursuit, in the process.

"Crabbe – take the right, and Goyle – you… you just stay here!" Malfoy shouted, running to the right and towards Sycamore Walk.

Harry closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. His ribs were on fire and his vision blurry – but he was strangely _alert_. If only he didn't draw attention to himself, he might just manage to escape the Death Eaters and reach the safety of the Dursleys' - _if_ he was safe there at all.

_I'll find out when I get there,_ he decided, not really wanting to think about what would happen if the Dursleys' house wasn't safe as Dumbledore had assured it would be. He swayed, catching himself just in time. _If I manage to get back to that hellhole at all._

Still as a statue, Harry watched Crabbe as he bolted towards the play park and Magnolia Crescent – _he runs really fast, who'd have thought? _– and Goyle, still in the form of Mrs. Figg, as he (she?) awkwardly tried to nurse his shattered arms – _That's got to be one of the weirdest things I've ever seen_. Harry waited before Crabbe was out of sight as well, adjusting the invisibility cloak so that it covered him completely, and tied it to his neck with clumsy, swelling fingers. While doing so, he was aware of something warm and sticky trickling down his wand arm.

_When did **that** happen?_ He wondered, seeing the long cut that stretched from the base of his thumb to the crook of his arm for the first time._ Ah well, I'll worry about that later – when I have my wand back_.

_His wand_. He turned his attention to the bush at the corner of Number Twelve – which roughly resembled a charred donut at the moment – and began skimming the ground for his wand. He cautiously moved around the bush, warily watching the whimpering fake Mrs. Figg out of the corner of his eye. A tuft of ginger hair caught his eye, and coming closer, realised it was the limp form of Mr. Tibbles.

_Sorry there,_ he thought grimly, gritting his teeth at the sight. _Sorry you had to die too. I seem to do that a lot, you see, getting anyone who helps me killed. It's sort of my specialty, as it were_.

Despite himself and the urgency of the situation, he reached out for the cat. Mr. Tibbles' body was still warm, and – _he was still breathing_. Relief washed over Harry. He bent double, cutting a grimace at the jabs of pain that shot up from his chest, but managed to scoop the cat up carefully all the same. He then concealed him in the folds of the invisibility cloak, which was at least twice as large as his own one.

_Being as it's Crabbe's.._._ Ron and Hermione could fit easily in here with me. Where was I? Oh, yeah, **wand**._

Still, no matter how hard he looked for it, he could not see his wand anywhere. His heart, which had slowed down to an almost acceptable rhythm since he'd found Mr. Tibbles, began to race again. Harry swayed a little, beginning to feel desperate. What could he do without his wand?

Just as he was beginning to lose the little presence of mind he had gained, he saw it, just at the other side of the fence to Number Twelve, in the middle of a bed of marguerites – he inched nearer, his progress hampered by Mr. Tibbles' bulky form...

A loud _crack_ rent the air, making him leap up with a start. The voice that accompanied it made his blood run cold even worse than Malfoy's had. His jaw clenched, sudden hatred flaring up inside, blanking every other thought out.

She emerged from Magnolia Crescent a short while later. Every bit as thin as Harry remembered her, her face had acquired an even more frightening expression, in spite of the bright sunlight. Or rather, because of it.

_You... **you** killed him. You killed him – **I'll kill you**._

He glanced at the spot where his wand was lying, perfectly concealed, yet out of reach. If only he vaulted the fence, he could get a clean shot at her before they noticed…

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord…_ he remembered suddenly. Harry glared at her gesticulating figure. Right now, Voldemort seemed unimportant. Right now, only revenge made sense.

_Born to those who thrice defied him... born as the seventh month dies..._

_I'll kill you…I have to…_ he went on stubbornly, despite the voice of reason that tried to break through.

"Malfoy, you dratted IDIOT! You just _had_ to try and get him on your own, didn't you? Where is he? Crabbe, you dim-witted, gormless piece of crud! WHERE – IS – POTTER?" Bellatrix Lestrange roared furiously.

_The hellhole_.

Harry blinked for a moment, remembering what this was all about. It was about _Voldemort_, **not** about Lestrange, not even about him. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed, torn between just giving in to his urge for vengeance and reaching safety.

Reason won out.

_**Not now. **But** I'll kill you, **you hear?** I will.**_

He had to return to the hellhole. In order to do that, he needed to get away from Bellatrix Lestrange though, wand or no wand. Fooling Malfoy was one thing, but _she_ was quite plainly another.

He backed off, cursing himself for his decision, his pains forgotten for the moment, and made towards Privet Drive, flinching at the number of _cracks_ and _pops_ that reached his ears moments later. He reached the corner of Sycamore Walk and Magnolia Drive, Mr. Tibbles clutched to his chest, the very moment Bellatrix Lestrange, along with three other black-robed figures, decided to Apparate in the middle of the crossing.

Harry came to a halt, trying not to make a sound lest he should be heard and found out.

Seconds later, it proved an unnecessary precaution, because Lucius Malfoy Apparated some way ahead, looking as furious as Bellatrix did. He wasn't wearing his invisibility cloak anymore, and his face was contorted with fury.

"He hasn't reached the house y—" Malfoy called, but he didn't finish the sentence.

"You are the greatest _idiot_ I have ever known!" Bellatrix shouted. "You just _had_ to have your little fun with him, didn't you! AND THEN YOU LET HIM ESCAPE! ONE WEEK PREPARING THE ENTIRE – SODDING – AREA, TIPTOEING AROUND THE WATCHERS TO SET UP THE ANTI-MUGGLE CHARMS AND WHAT DO YOU DO? YOU GET HERE EARLY AND TRY TO TAKE THE CREDIT BEFORE OUR MASTER!" she hollered, towering dangerously over Malfoy and gesticulating wildly for added effect. It worked; even the Death Eaters who had arrived after she had, flinched. "AND THEN, TO TOP IT ALL, YOU **LOSE—THE – POTTER – BOY**! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO **LURE** HIM INTO THE HOUSE AND **KEEP** HIM **THERE**, NOT TO LET HIM GET AWAY!"

Harry backed away from them, seeking the shelter of a nearby wall. Things were starting to look even worse than they had before. From the play park, he could see three more figures approaching; Lestrange, Malfoy and Crabbe were blocking the way to Sycamore Walk, while Goyle was still sitting in front of Mrs. Figg's. Not to mention the ongoing _cracks_ and _pops_ that announced yet more Death Eaters coming his way.

Heart pounding in his throat, Harry tightened his hold on Mr. Tibbles and snuck past the weakly moaning Goyle, flattening himself against the wall of Number Eleven when the newcomers approached him. They were livid behind the black masks – Harry thought he recognised Nott's voice cursing Malfoy's stupidity rather fervently.

Gritting his teeth and trying to remain silent, Harry snuck along Magnolia Drive and headed for the play park, the nasty laughter of one of them – Avery's, perhaps? – ringing in his ears, mocking Goyle's misadventure.

_No wonder they're the way they are. What with those friends…_

Once he was out of earshot, Harry broke into a run. He vaulted a fence without so much as a second thought and made his way quickly across perfectly kept gardens, glancing behind him every so often to check whether or not anyone had caught on to his whereabouts. He skidded to a halt near the entrance of Magnolia Crescent, from where some other dark-robed figures were approaching. Harry crouched behind a hedge and watched them pass him.

The Death Eaters seemed to be heatedly debating something. _They must feel pretty safe to holler around like that._

Why weren't they following him?

He adjusted the weight of the large cat in his arms and leapt to his feet again. This turned out not to be such a good idea; Spots danced in front of his eyes again, and dizziness overtook him. A strange wheezing sound reached his ears, and he turned, looking around for its source, before he realised it was made by him. He swallowed back more bile.

_Talk about having a rotten day…_ There was nothing for it, he had to go on.

Trying to control his erratic breathing, he plodded on as fast as he dared. He reached the play park and entered it, feeling his knees begin to give way again. A few hurried steps later, he reached a small shed and hid inside, behind a barrel full of sand that stood in the far corner, listening hard.

The Death Eaters were finally looking for him, that much he could easily discern. He leaned against the wall and slid slowly down to a sitting position. Throwing his head back, Mr. Tibbles still warm against his belly, he listened to the Apparition sounds around the place and tried not to lose consciousness. Now he could catch his breath, all the dull aches sharpened, draining him from energy so fast he almost blacked out.

Mr. Tibbles stirred, distracting Harry's attention from his pains for a moment. Holding the invisibility cloak like a tent over his head, he looked down, and gasped.

His left forearm was still bleeding, wrapped around the cat's twitching form; blood was flowing freely from the long gash Malfoy had given him, soaking his tee shirt, trickling down the front of his oversized trousers in sticky, warm rivulets. Mr. Tibbles was also covered in it, his fur absorbing it like a sponge. It didn't look good.

_When does it ever?_

With some effort, Harry shrugged off the invisibility cloak, laid the cat on the floor, and lost his tee shirt, wrapping it around his forearm like a makeshift bandage. It seemed to help, but now he felt more vulnerable, more out in the open than before.

_Where is the Order?_ He wondered for the first time. Had anything happened to them? Or maybe Mundungus Fletcher had decided to take the day off again? Maybe they didn't really want to watch him anymore; what with all the trouble he had caused them… He strained his ears, which were beginning to ring in the silence around. Nothing could be heard, not even apparition sounds. The ongoing stillness was unnerving. It was to Harry as if time had come to a standstill – but Voldemort couldn't stop time, could he?

_No,_ his mind supplied reasonably, _he can't. Bellatrix Lestrange snapped at Malfoy that he had thrown one week's worth of work down the drain, didn't she?_

What had she called them? Anti-muggle Charms? He suspected there was much more to the thorough evacuation of the neighbourhood than that. He covered himself with the invisibility cloak again, cradling Mr. Tibbles against his belly once more, after checking he was still breathing. However he looked at it, he had never been in a worse fix - except that night at the graveyard, and his own parents had helped him out, hadn't they? And in every other one of his crazy adventures, he hadn't been – or felt – so alone. Was that the way it would be from now on? He gulped down the lump rising in his throat.

_No_. He'd _sworn_ he'd show no weakness.

_And being so helpless definitely stinks, _he decided. _Why, my **life** stinks. But I'm not helping myself here, just sitting here like a sodding rabbit, waiting for them to come._

He still didn't move, however, his breath coming in low whistling gasps, fast and shallow, those weird black specks dancing before his eyes, cold sweat trickling down his face.

_It **definitely** stinks..._

_Well, now you've assessed that part of your miserable life, how do you plan on getting out of here?_ His thoughts came in the cheerful voice he missed to hear the most. The one voice he'd never hear again, except in his head, and in time, he would even forget what it sounded like…

_No, I shall **not** forget you, Sirius. I **shan't**._

He closed his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw, unwilling to give in to that kind of thoughts. Only that steeling himself was so much more difficult now, when he was hiding behind a barrel of sand in the shed of the play park, alone and bleeding.

Unbidden, the image of Sirius appeared before his mind's eye. He had enjoyed fighting, Sirius had. _He had **wanted** to fight._

_'Personally, I'd have welcomed a dementor attack. A deadly struggle for my soul would have broken the monotony nicely.'_

That was what he'd said about Harry's dementor attack last year, hadn't he? Harry swallowed back the tears that had been well on their way out. Sirius had enjoyed every battle, every chance to do _something_. He sniffled weakly, remembering the mad duel Sirius had been fighting against Bellatrix Lestrange. He had traded curses and hexes with her so fast, it had been a colourful blur – and Sirius had been in his element. Harry had never seen his godfather – or anyone else, for that matter – fighting like that... and now the chance to do so ever again was gone. He shook his head, as if that would make the thoughts go away, concentrating on Sirius' words.

_'You think you've had it bad, at least you've been able to get out and about, stretch your legs, get into a few fights…'_

_Wish I was more like you,_ he thought grimly. _More like you and my dad... you **chose** to fight in this war, and **you** **bloody well enjoyed it**, didn't you?_

A rustling sound outside broke his line of thought, and he gave a start, straining to identify it. Pacing came to his ears, approaching from the side of the Magnolia Drive.

He raffled himself up, checked the invisibility cloak again, and stole right to the door of the shed, at the same time it opened with a low creaking sound. Flattening himself against the wall, he stared straight at the masked face of a Death Eater.

_Well, who'd you expect? The tooth fairy?_ He cast about for a name to match those cold eyes, and his mind supplied _Avery_. Harry mentally shrugged, surprising himself at how his heart was beating almost normally and he wasn't shaking anymore.

_Avery_ – or whoever it was, he didn't really care – opened the door fully, almost crushing him against the wall. For the first time ever, he had half a mind to thank the Dursleys for his thinness. Avery entered the shed, his wand outstretched before him, warily glancing in every direction. He was alone, it seemed, as nobody followed. Something in the corner where Harry had been sitting moments earlier caught his attention; he bent over to look at it –

Harry cocked his head to the side, suddenly remembering something, and nearly smacking himself on the head out of exasperation. _Why_ hadn't he thought of it before? Would it work? Inwardly screaming at himself for his repeated blunders, he concentrated on willing Avery's wand towards him.

_Come on, you there..._Accio_wand...come** on, ACCIO! Gimme!**_

He was suddenly holding it in his hand.

Not stopping to gape at it in disbelief, he aimed it at the Death Eater, who had straightened up with a jump and was staring at it in bewilderment, apparently floating in midair.

"Goodbye, you. _Stupefy_," Harry muttered, pointing it at him.

_Break the monotony nicely_. He made a low chuckling sound in the back of his throat and a small, grim smile played on his lips.

_You were right, Sirius. This is **definitely** not boring._

He twiddled the reddish wand between his fingers, and looked at Avery's prone form with no little amount of satisfaction for a moment, before he banished him to the corner he had occupied earlier, and left the shed as quickly as he dared.

_Now I just have to get past a dozen more of these,_ he thought firmly, adrenalin pumping through his veins, allowing him to move faster than he'd believed he could. _Let's get cracking, then..._

He trotted almost noiselessly along Magnolia Drive, finding himself grateful for his worn trainers, which seemed to absorb most of the sound, went past Magnolia Crescent –_ I first saw Sirius there, all those years ago_ – and reached the corner of Maple Row, a winding street that would lead him, after a detour, to Daffodil Drive, and _that_ one would lead him to the corner of Privet Drive, right next to Number Seventeen.

The Death Eaters were nothing if not thorough, it seemed. Not a soul could be seen or heard in any of the houses he passed. How had they done it? He stole along Maple Row, which was as deserted as the rest of the area, and every bit as quiet, feeling Mr. Tibbles begin to slide from his arms. He shifted the large cat awkwardly to his shoulder and went on, feeling increasingly nervous because of the continued silence surrounding him. Where was the Order? Had the Death Eaters killed them?

The sun was shining brightly, rendering the scene even more surreal than it already was. Death Eater attacks simply _didn't_ occur in the daylight. Bad form, as it were. Harry hurried forward, repressing the urge to chuckle at the illogical thought.

He reached the corner of Daffodil Drive, and shrank back behind a nearby car when his eyes caught a figure nearby, somewhere around the corner of Privet Drive.

Goyle, still in the likeness of Mrs. Figg, was hobbling in his direction, supported by Crabbe, who had a watery and silvery bundle under his arm. Malfoy had, by all looks of it, decided he wouldn't need his invisibility cloak anymore. Harry's scar gave a sharp twinge, causing him to wince. Voldemort was really losing his patience. Forcing himself to concentrate on the approaching menace instead of on the constant reminder of his purpose in life, he looked warily for signs of other Death Eaters in his close vicinity. There were none. Gritting his teeth, Harry emerged from behind the car and made his way towards Crabbe and Goyle-Mrs. Figg as fast and quietly as he could contrive.

He made short work of them, having caught them by surprise. All they saw was a wand floating in midair, and the next moment, both toppled to the ground, unable to move - and in Goyle's case, to see. Goyle screamed as he fell, though, alerting everyone else hunting Harry that something was amiss. Taking his wand between his teeth, Harry grabbed Malfoy's invisibility cloak and, in a bout of inspiration, Mrs. Figg's carpet bag in his right hand, covered himself with the invisibility cloak again and vaulted the fence of the closest house, before the first cracks of more Death Eaters began to echo in the deserted street.

Panting, he crossed the back garden of the house, and disappeared, with a soft rustle, amidst the perfectly pruned bushes lining the backyard of Number Seventeen, Privet Drive, which stood right at the corner. The Death Eaters were Apparating only a short distance away, furious, urgent shouts reached his ears. Crabbe and Goyle had been found.

Harry sprinted towards the fence of Number Seventeen, breaking to the right and crossing the street to Number Sixteen. He caught a glimpse of silver-blond hair running towards Number Four and hid in the driveway – What if they had taken Number Four, done with the Dursleys and were simply waiting for him to arrive?

There was only one way to find out.

Breath quickening, the cat steadily sliding from his shoulder, Harry leapt towards the back garden of Number Sixteen, determined to get away from them. He sought refuge underneath a long garden table and tried to his bearings together. He stuffed the invisibility cloak inside of Mrs. Figg's carpet bag, which had been enlarged to fit a such a number of things inside, that Harry had no problem in gently placing Mr. Tibbles inside, a necessary precaution due to the plan forming in his mind. The confused shouting drew nearer, a sign that his resting time was up. He couldn't draw attention to himself now, he needed some distraction to entertain the Death Eaters long enough to allow him to reach the – as yet still dubious – safety of Privet Drive.

The fence separating Number Sixteen from Number Fourteen was very high, but years of escaping from Dudley and his cronies had brought about a sort of knowledge of the neighbourhood Harry sincerely doubted he would have otherwise acquired, and which was nothing if not utterly **_thorough_**.

_Another thing to be thankful for_, he thought grimly as he pushed one of the seemingly solid wooden strips aside and squeezed through the resulting opening, hauling the ridiculously heavy bag along. _That one stumped Dudley for years… I hope Malfoy and company shall not be any different._

He shouldered the carpet bag and scrambled towards Number Twelve, glancing at the street, which was fairly teeming with Death Eaters. There was still no sign of the Order, or indeed of any other living beings – He hadn't been looking where he was going; his foot caught something, and he fell face forward onto the ground, throwing his left hand out to break his fall, and bit back a yelp of pain as he landed on his crushed side, barely managing to save the bag from hitting the ground too. Momentarily winded and in fact blinded by the stabbing pain in his side, Harry drew a deep, steadying breath.

This turned out to be a mistake. Sharp, white-hot pain shot from his chest, crushing his lungs further, eliciting a muffled moan. Harry wrenched his streaming eyes open, struggled to sit up, his previous adrenalin rush fading into nothingness. He had tripped over a beaming garden gnome with a ludicrous green hat, yellow breeches and blue boots the like of which Mrs. Number Ten liked to scatter across her garden.

This one had been "pushing" a little wheelbarrow full of daisies. Harry removed his foot from the remains of the flowers with a grimace. The gnome's head wobbled for a moment, then fell off and rolled away, and Harry found himself staring as it came to a standstill against a black boot that hadn't been there a moment ago.

_Bugger._

Harry was entirely too close to Malfoy again, and to judge by his triumphant expression, the invisibility cloak had slid off some part of his body when he fell. Malfoy opened his mouth to either alert the rest or curse him, but Harry never found out just what. In a quick reflexive movement, he cast the Full Body Bind on Malfoy, adding a Hurling Hex that sent him flying to the ground for good measure.

He vaulted the fence to Number Twelve, sprinting through a hole in the hedge that divided it from Number Ten and stopped, leaning heavily against the wall and trying to calm down enough to reach safety.

_Come on, just a little further… I'm… almost there_ – he approached the far end of Mrs. Number Ten's garden, when an odd tingling sensation overcame him, rooting him into place, making his skin prickle and the hairs of his neck bristle – it was almost like walking through a ghost, only without the cold –

_CRACK!_

Suddenly, an electric blue glow crossed the length of the fence, like a transparent wall that stretched along the entire street – Harry backed away, panicking again, and sought refuge behind a fountain of little cherubs that reminded him dimly of Madam Puddifoot's. As chance had it, from where he had hid, he could see the Death Eaters apparating on the street, as if drawn by the eerie blue wall. He could see Crabbe lumbering towards Bellatrix Lestrange, half-dragging Goyle, whose arms had mercifully been bandaged, along with him.

Moments later, Malfoy apparated too, his hair covered with clumps of dirt and torn flowers from when Harry had sent him flying across Mrs. Number Fourteen's garden. If he'd looked furious before, he was now positively livid. Yet another, rather short Death Eater, followed in his wake, hurriedly putting his wand away and cowering, in a way that seemed oddly familiar, before Bellatrix Lestrange, who glared around at them in exasperation.

"Where is he?" she snapped furiously at them, her bony fingers clenching and unclenching jerkily. "It's just a boy, do not tell me you let him go _again_!"

"Where is he?" Malfoy's voice trailed towards Harry, who couldn't help noticing the undertone of fear lining Malfoy's every word. "He's disrupted the wards, he _has_ to be here!" Harry was reminded of Dudley on the verge of a temper tantrum. No less than a dozen Death Eaters had arrived, and they were looking left and right, crossing to and from the weird bluish glow, undisturbed by its presence, as if they couldn't see it.

_Wards. They've got the whole place warded. Merlin…_

"He – he can't _Apparate_, can he?" one of the Death Eaters ventured uncertainly.

"How thick can you be?" Bellatrix snapped, her eyes glinting furiously. "He can't possibly know how – Look for him over there! You," she rounded in on Malfoy, who recoiled. "Try and cut him off before he reaches the house! Go as close to the house as you can get. **_Go_**!"

How could he get back? If the weird ward-thing alerted the Death Eaters every time he tried to cross it, he would be running like a hamster in a labyrinth until he passed out.

_Which incidentally_, he reminded himself angrily, _could happen any minute_.

"He's somewhere in the back gardens, I think it's better if we–" Malfoy said at once, his voice no longer pleasant and smug but harsh, Harry noted with something akin to satisfaction. Malfoy stopped short, turning to see yet another pair of Death Eaters approaching, one of whom hobbled rather pitifully along.

"What happened to _you_, MacPherson?" he shouted, in an obvious attempt to distract Bellatrix' wrath from his own hide.

"What do you _think_ happened to me?" the Death Eater Harry had knocked out in the play park muttered darkly, slumping down next to Goyle on the sidewalk and holding his head in his arms. Harry smirked despite himself.

_Serves you right, stupid git._

Goyle suddenly let out a loud moan, drawing everyone's attention to himself. He began to shake rather violently, his bandaged arms began to swell; he was transforming into his usual bulky form once more. Mrs. Figg's thin factions looked oddly distorted, her dress was ripping at the seams, and her mousy-grey hair became dark and short. Goyle looked, Harry decided, almost like Aunt Marge when he'd blown her up before his third year, except he wasn't floating and wore pink slippers.

Bellatrix Lestrange seemed to share his point of view. A shrill, cold, and derisive laugh reached Harry's ears, and he could do little but stare in bewilderment at her, holding her sides in mirth. She made even laughter look evil, and he wondered absently if she was well on her way on becoming a dementor herself. As abruptly as she had begun to laugh, she stopped, turning to the rest of the Death Eaters who had joined in with her.

"What are you laughing about? Go and FIND – THE – _POTTER_ – BOY!" she bellowed, and Harry snapped into motion even as the Death Eaters began to scatter, flinging spells in every direction; Reductor Curses, Revealing Charms, Unlocking Spells—and they all disintegrated on the blue wall if they hit it.

Ducking a slashing curse that flew by, Harry turned and stole away, keeping as far away from the spells and curses as was possible, his heart thumping against his throat again. He gripped the carpet bag tightly and hauled it on his shoulder, making for Number Eight as fast as his legs would carry him. Only his legs were giving way beneath him, and his entire body felt quite shaky and weak.

He crawled through a hedge, spotted a shed and made for it, narrowly missing Nott, who had decided to apparate in the centre of the neat lawn of Number Ten at that very moment.

"Oy!" Nott called loudly, "Oy, there's blood here! He must be close!"

Harry looked up and behind him, and cursed fervently in midvoice. He had been leaving a trail of bloody splatters behind him, for anyone with half a brain to follow. He muttered the Obliterating Charm Hermione had used the previous year to erase their footsteps and stumbled onwards, frantically struggling to reach Number Six, which was entirely occupied by that weird blue wall.

Harry skidded to a halt, his heart sinking at the sight. How could he get past that?

Behind him, several Death Eaters had joined Nott, and were even now combing the area. Harry teetered on the edge of the glowing barrier, his every ounce of resolve vanishing gradually, leaving him with a hollow feeling of defeat.

If he stepped ahead, the Death Eaters would know where he was. If he stayed put, the Death Eaters would find him anyway.

_Merlin, this is **some **cock-up._

He glanced up, past the glowing barrier, where he could see his bedroom window. He was so close – and yet so darned far away from safety.

Backing away from the approaching sounds of Death Eaters, he edged along the wall of Number Six and slid to the ground right next to the back door, his hopes, opportunities and determination crumbling to dust and seeping through his fingers like sand. It seemed that his energy had left him along with his hope. He hardly noticed the Death Eaters running around the place, checking every corner and bush for him; sitting in the open as he was, they would find him the minute one of them decided to check the inside of the house.

Mrs. Next-Door had always cluttered her back garden with all sorts of rubbish, probably in competing with Aunt Petunia for the most 'beautiful' garden in the neighbourhood. Harry glanced at the shed not ten feet away, dismissed the idea almost at once. He doubted his legs would carry him that far. He stared at the glowing barrier, too numb to think.

It was mesmerising really, like looking through a water wall. It shimmered stronger at some points than others, as if it were alive. There was an ever so subtle shifting of the glow, a slight weaving from side to side, just _there_, as if it were breathing…

He never knew how long he sat there, leaning against the wall, huddled in the invisibility cloak, sweat mingled with blood and tears trickling down his face, the bag containing Mr. Tibbles clutched against his chest, as he stared with unseeing eyes at the flurry of movement around him. It was to him like he were seeing everything in a film; he felt nothing, no pain, no fear, nothing except… numbness. He was so very tired... how he longed to sleep...

* * *

"Look, did you see that?" Harry heard Sirius' voice in his head. He tilted his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He could picture his godfather's cheerful face, the bright gleam in his eyes as he sat next to him, his arms crossed over his knees, looking at Number Four...

_He's gone,_ he told himself without emotion, opening his eyes once more, as if that would prove his point. _He's gone, and he's **not** sitting beside you._

Harry blinked. The image did not go away.

The Sirius of his parents' wedding photograph gave him an encouraging, lopsided smile; his eyes twinkled with amusement, and Harry wondered briefly what it was that Sirius found so funny, like an inside joke he hadn't shared with his godson. Sirius drew a blade of grass from the impeccable lawn, brushed a hand on his dark grey robes, and began to chew calmly on it, his attention back to a point beyond the weird blue barrier.

Bellatrix Lestrange passed inches away from where they both sat, missing Harry completely while muttering furiously under her breath about all the things she would do to him once she caught him, and what she'd do to Malfoy right after she was done with "the brat." At least Harry supposed it was him she referred to.

"Rather painful what she's planning, don't you think?" Sirius commented lightly, turning to look sideways at his godson again with a wry glance, and chuckled when Harry continued to gape at him in disbelief. Nott's Reductor Curse snapped Harry out of his dazed state, as it narrowly missed his head.

"S…S-Siri-" Harry started, but was cut off when Sirius nodded at the Death Eaters and winked his warning. He then pointed at his cousin and leaned closer to Harry.

"She hates it when I call her Trixie, Bella does," he murmured conspiratorially in his godson's ear, grinning widely. "You should try it sometime. Makes her go ballistic." He cocked his head to one side, surveying Harry with an expression that made him feel oddly comforted.

"I know you're tired, little one," Sirius went on, sobering up a little. Harry's heart leapt at the address. "It's not all lost, yet. See?" Sirius pointed at the barrier. "The trick is not to lose faith, Harry. You only need to see things clearly; I know you can."

Harry followed his godfather's gesturing hand with slowly focusing eyes. The glowing barrier shifted again, ever so slightly.

"That's a… that's a _way across_?" Harry whispered back, his stomach wriggling funnily as he realised what Sirius was on about. A slight, refreshing breeze touched his cheek, and he felt heartened, more alert.

"I knew you'd see, little one," Sirius said with satisfaction. Harry's heart positively glowed this time, identifying the undertone of fierce pride in Sirius' every word. "I knew you would." A low chuckle. "Easiest ten Galleons I ever made."

"B…but the Death Eaters," Harry muttered, his foggy-brained state fading as he plunged back into reality. He looked warily around, his fingers clenching around the wand.

"Just get past them, it's not like it's hard or anything," the heart-warming voice said confidently, causing a disbelieving smile to crawl across Harry's face.

"You are **_my_** godson, after all," Sirius added proudly, and then chuckled. "It's just that dolt Malfoy, Harry. Go on, the house is safe," Sirius added, surveying Harry thoughtfully. "Don't forget – You are **_my_** godson, little one. Don't you forget that for one second."

Harry tore his eyes from Malfoy, who was presently blasting a hole in the shed at the far end of the garden, and looked at Sirius, the little, earnest smile still pasted on his face.

There was nobody there.

Where Sirius had sat a moment earlier, only an empty space remained. Harry's stomach dropped a few inches. Had he dreamed it?

_The house is safe, go on._

_Right_.

Tearing his eyes from the spot where Sirius had sat moments earlier before the hollow emptiness had another go at him, Harry got to very unsteady feet and made for the "opening" in the glowing barrier.

He had only stumbled ahead a few steps when Bellatrix Lestrange appeared in front of him, glaring _through_ him and straight at the spot where he had sat leaning against the wall. He saw her eyes linger on the wall for a moment, then scan the ground for telltale signs of his presence.

Her eyes came to a halt right where he stood. He saw a triumphant gleam flash in them, comprehension dawning on her face for the shortest of moments, before she flung herself at him with a yell.

He automatically sidestepped her, much like he had done with Malfoy and his pet goons back in his third year, and mutely watched her catch herself mid-fall and leap at him again, with amazing accuracy and a furious howl.

He dodged her again and barely had time to yank the invisibility cloak from her grasping hands. There was a rustling sound behind him— more Death Eaters were coming. He braced himself, and sprinted towards the hedge of Four, Privet Drive, throwing caution to the winds.

He felt the hood of the invisibility cloak slide off his shoulders, heard the almost immediate yells of Death Eaters around, before he hurled himself headfirst into the gap in the barrier and all sound was shut off.

It was like trying to run in a pool full of jelly.

Harry gasped for air, but there was none. As though from afar, he heard laughter – high, cold, cruel guffaws mocking him. He struggled to lift his foot, struggled to breathe…

_The house is safe… Don't panic. Don't panic. The house is safe… Sirius said so. Don't panic. Don't panic. don'tpanic Sirius said— don't panicdon't—_

He gasped for breath once more, fought the thickening mass of _something_ that enveloped him fully – and found he couldn't move at all.

He couldn't help it: he panicked. He struggled frantically against the strange mass that made his skin tingle, he felt goosebumps rise on his arms again, struggled onwards in a futile attempt to break free, the only thought left to him being, _don'tpanic don't panicdon't Sirius said so don'tpanic don't panic the house is safe the house is safe…_

High, cold laughter rang in his ears. He struggled harder, tried to scream. Found he couldn't.

_Don'tpanic—just let go…don't panic **air** the house is safe breathe **Sirius said**— don't—don't— let…let **go**…panic the house is safe don't— **SIRIUS**! panic…_

He snapped.

Terror took over.

Whatever happened next was lost to him. There was an odd sensation of being let go, as if somebody had been holding him back with a giant elastic band and suddenly released him. He was propelled forward and crashed against the hedge of Number Four. Not waiting to wonder at what had happened, he raffled himself up and vaulted the hedge, using the remaining momentum to reach the back door of the Dursleys', against which he slumped, tearing at the collar of the invisibility cloak and his tee shirt, fighting for air, the bag containing Mr. Tibbles still in his hand...

* * *

A soft breeze ruffled his wet hair, warm against his clammy skin. There was something tugging at his ear, and he reached up for it in a slow, almost hesitant movement. His glasses… He opened his eyes with the chime of his wristwatch, which told him, once he had righted his oddly bent spectacles, that it was almost four o'clock. He let his head fall back on the soft spot he was lying on, closed his eyes again. There was time for dinner yet. Had he finished his Transfiguration homework? Ah, well, he could try and copy it off Hermione's... He'd tell Ron to distract her or something.

The shrill twittering of a bird reached his ears, the smell of grass and earth and flowers filled his nose. It felt quite nice, to be just lying there, on the peaceful, quiet and utterly _soft_ spot he had picked, the sun shining in the cloudless sky, warming his skin...the smell of roses and flowers in the air... What would dinner be tonight? Should he skip it and just lie there until Ron or Hagrid came to get him?

Harry gave a sigh. His stomach wriggled a little. There was a scent that seemed off, somehow, but he couldn't place it. He sniffled, tentatively. The scent was elusive and not even strong enough to bother him, a bit on the sweetish side… and yet… he sniffled again, frowning, trying to place the scent. He was positive he'd smelled it before.

_It's acid_. _No, more… **metallic**_… _strange, that._

A fly broke his distorted line of thoughts, buzzing too close to his ear for his liking. He swatted at it irritably with a leaden arm, opening his eyes again when it kept insisting on settling on his head or nose.

A weight slid off his chest when he groggily made to sit up, and he looked down at it. He stared, unblinkingly, at the sight that met his eyes.

A soft breeze ruffled his wet hair, suddenly cold, making him shiver. The smell came back to him, no longer elusive, but poignant, nauseating. The smell of blood. He looked around him, but instead the grounds of Hogwarts he had expected to see, he found himself sitting next to a red brick house, on a freshly-planted bed of tulips. A bag had fallen off his belly, and something in it was moving – he backed away, fumbling with an - invisibility cloak?

Harry gawped at the cloak for a long moment. _This_ didn't belong to him...

Then it came rushing back to him, as if his brain had woken up after he had, and had finally gotten around to providing the images that allowed him to piece together the sequence of events that led him to sit amidst Aunt Petunia's tulips – Death Eaters at Mrs. Figg's… Malfoy had attacked him – the Cruciatus – Sirius – Bellatrix Lestrange – Goyle's transformation – _Merlin_...

He'd run away, though, and he'd… he'd run. Turning his head towards the hedge – he'd jumped that one – he scanned the area for any signs of struggle.

There were none. All around Number Four, Privet Drive, everything seemed perfectly normal and peaceful and, well, as muggle as it always was.

Except, as usual, for one Harry Potter, who half-sat, shirtless, entangled in a strange invisibility cloak, bathed in his own blood, on his Aunt Petunia's ruined bed of tulips, his hand resting on a wiggling and mewling bag.

* * *

TBC. 


	5. Return to the Crime Scene

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, its characters and everything worth reading is owned by JK Rowling. :bows respectfully to her: That is to say, I do not own any of those things. Except for the plot, the wandmaker, Harry's rotten sense of humour and anything else you do not recognise from JK's work. That said, you may read on.**

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* * *

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**Chapter Five – Return to the... Crime Scene?**

Harry didn't go inside straight away. He sat motionless, staring at the hedge in front of him, the memories of recent events chasing each other in his mind, and only snapped out of his dazed state when he heard the telly in the Dursleys' living room blare to life. Apparently, as soon as all the Death Eaters had left, the spells they had cast on the muggles had lost their effect, to judge by the sudden flurry of movement around him; tellies and dishwashers were operating again, birds were singing, and Mrs. Number seven's children were whining for ice cream. All was back to normal, and Harry sincerely doubted the muggles were any the wiser about what had happened mere moments ago in their _perfect_ little street.

He shivered again, bathed as he was in cold sweat, the wheezing sound of his breathing growing louder. He needed help. He needed to send a message to the Order.

Raffling himself up with some difficulty and taking care to cover himself and Mr. Tibbles fully with the invisibility cloak, he made his way erratically into the kitchen, careful to make as little noise and leave as little dirt behind as possible. He didn't think Aunt Petunia would take too kindly to his present state. She'd more likely go bonkers over her precious tulips, and he had long ago learned not to expect any help from his relatives. No, he thought it best to alert the Order as fast as he could. He needed real help at the moment, and if he went to his relatives he would only be yelled at. Aunt Petunia would want a full explanation, and he was risking being turned out by her, something that he wasn't really keen on. The Order, on the other hand, could provide some help; maybe even send Madam Pomfrey along to heal him. Yes, that seemed the most sensible thing to do. Have the Order deal with Aunt Petunia; let them sort this out for once.

Inside Mrs. Figg's bag, Mr. Tibbles mewled weakly. Harry hastily shushed him into silence. Aunt Petunia hated animals, and she would throw them both out faster than blinking if she found out that Harry was trying to sneak a cat into her sparkling clean house.

He crossed the hall and reached the bottom step of the stairs; it creaked as soon as he set foot on it. He cringed.

"Boy, is that you?" Aunt Petunia screeched from the living room, drowning the voice of the talk show lady. Harry threw out a hand to steady himself on the banister.

_Damn._

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," he replied, trying his best to keep the quaver from his voice.

"About time, too," she snapped, and Harry was grateful he didn't hear her get up from her seat. "Go to your room," she went on, "Diddy has invited some of his little friends over for tea, and we will not put up with your abnormality."

"Yes...I'm... I'm going, Aunt Petunia," Harry managed, half pulling himself up to begin climbing the stairs.

"Don't use that tone with me, boy!"

"Sorry..." He climbed another step. Merlin, this wasn't easy.

After much quiet puffing and cursing at midvoice, Harry reached the top of the stairs, and made for his bedroom on rather unstable legs. Mr. Tibbles mewled again, a little louder this time. Harry shushed him once more.

"Hang on, just a moment..."

Now all he had to do was send a letter to the Order as fast as he could. When he had wrestled his bedroom door open, however, Hedwig was not to be seen. Harry wasn't worried, though. His field of vision had become rather narrow, and those black specks dancing in front of him weren't really helping him discern his surroundings any clearer anyway.

"Hedwig?" Harry muttered softly, not wanting to upset his aunt by calling loudly to her. A hoot answered from atop the shelves that still contained Dudley's old and broken toys. He stopped short. Unless he had somehow lost his hearing, he was fairly sure that this wasn't what Hedwig sounded like.

He turned, trying to locate the source of the sound. The impatient hoot that welcomed him belonged to a huge black eagle owl he had never seen before. The handwriting on the scroll it bore on its leg was unmistakably Dumbledore's, however, and he all but tore it from the owl's leg as it gracefully fluttered on his desk.

As soon as he had managed to undo the length of string with numb fingers, the owl gave him a reproachful glare and took out through his open window, before he had any chance to send it back with a plea for help. Harry watched it go. He let the invisibility cloak slide off his shoulders and onto the floor, and undid the scroll, tearing the parchment in his haste. It read:

"_Harry –_

_We know what happened. **STAY IN THE HOUSE**. You know the reasons. Do not send any owls or try to contact anyone by any other means. Hedwig is safe here with us, I shall send her back to you when the safety of the area has been confirmed. Stay in the house, no matter what happens - two Order members shall be calling shortly to inform you of the new arrangements we have chosen for your safety._

_Albus Dumbledore."_

He had to read the message several times over before the meaning of it sank in: The Order were working on 'new arrangements', whatever that meant. They knew what had happened, and yet they were not rushing to his aid, it seemed. That must mean that the Order, at least, were all right, didn't it? But then, why hadn't they come? Why hadn't they helped him? Had they fought the Death Eaters and come off worse? Where were they now?

Harry noticed he was shaking as if a Jelly-Legs Jinx had hit him. He placed the bag containing the still mewling Mr. Tibbles on his bed as gently as he could without actually letting it fall, but before he could throw himself beside the cat, his knees gave way as a sharp, blinding pain shot though his scar.

Bellatrix had been right: Voldemort wasn't pleased at all. Harry caught a glimpse of shadowy, cowering figures in a dark chamber, Voldemort's rage washing through him as well.

"Stupid... gits," he growled through clenched teeth, the throbbing in his skull mounting until it obliterated the rest of the pains in his body. He remained long on the floor, eyes shut tightly against the searing, white-hot pain in his scar, teeth and fists clenched, in an attempt no to give in to the shared feeling of anger that surfaced within him as well.

"Idiots," he said again, but it came as a feeble, wheezing sort of hiss.

He heard, as if from afar, the doorbell to the Dursley household, announcing the arrival of Dudley and Piers or Derek or whoever had come along with him for tea. Harry opened his blurring eyes a crack, trying to figure out what to do next. The Order had not arrived yet, and he was feeling worse than ever.

A colourful something caught his eye; there under the bed, he saw the vials of potion Snape had left him for his elbow. He reached out and retrieved the small bottles, which contained over half their contents still. His scar gave another sharp twinge. Squinting at the pain, he looked at the thick, gooey substances swirling within.

Well, since the Order hadn't come, he figured it would only be sensible to help himself. The bright blue potion was the bone-knitting one, or was it the poisonous-looking green one? He shut his eyes briefly, wincing. Voldemort was certainly furious.

He turned his attention to the vials again. He remembered dimly that they had to be mixed in water, or something of the sort... He struggled to remember, but his brain seemed to have jammed. The pain in his scar receded slightly, and his chest immediately made itself known. Harry winced weakly.

"Sod this," he muttered, raising himself just enough to bring the vials to his lips and taking a sip of both. The burning sensation spread almost from his mouth and went straight to his chest, but the feeling of heartburn didn't fade like it had the first time. It lingered in his chest, making him curl up. This wasn't a wise move, either; the feeling of broken bone grating against broken bone was far from pleasant.

He felt like he was on fire. Not only from his scar, burning white-hot once more, but from his chest as well. He gasped for breath, rolling over on his back and propping himself up against the bed in the straightest sitting position ever. Uncomfortable as this was, it seemed to help his breathing a bit. The constricting sensation of having swallowed acid gradually lessened, and was replaced by the burning feeling he remembered so well from before. Everything was swimming around him now, and he brought his knees up, holding his head in his hands, exhausted, wishing the pain to leave once and for all...

He was suddenly in a dark room, glaring at two people in dark robes cowering before him in unmistakable submission and terror. Harry looked long at them, savouring their fear. He could feel it; he could _breathe_ it as it filled the room, emanating from those fools at his service. Fools.

"Well?" Harry hissed in little more than a whisper that carried across the room nonetheless. The figures shifted a little. One of them gave a start a little to his right. He turned his penetrating stare at it, his face hardening. There was no response. The Death Eater was prostrated so low his nose brushed the ground. Harry could see he was sweating.

"Well?" he repeated louder, his tone now menacing.

"M-my Lord..." the man stammered in a shaking voice. "I... we... we only wished to... to speed up the proceedings..." He trailed off, his hair, almost white in the semi-darkness, trailing limply on the stone floor.

"Have you no answer for your Master?" Harry hissed again, the threat evident in his every word. "You have failed to bring the Potter boy to me." Another tremor ran across the room, the soft rustle of robes magnified in the otherwise complete silence. "Where is he?" Harry raised his voice this time, his long, white fingers closed around his wand, relishing the echoes that magnified tenfold every sound made in the chamber.

The Death Eater looked up fearfully, his pale grey eyes pleading for mercy even now.

"M-m-master... w-we..." He didn't get much farther than that. His eyes opened wide as he saw the wand pointed at him.

"_Crucio_." Harry hissed loudly. They hadn't been able to catch the Potter boy. Not after so much preparation. Malfoy screamed shrilly, rolling about on the floor in agony, his cries echoing off the walls, magnified by them. Harry basked in the feeling. Pain, he found, would be their reward. He could always ask questions later.

The questioning of Lucius Malfoy did not prove as satisfactory as it ought to have been. His remaining Death Eaters were trying to reach the boy even now, but that meddlesome fool Dumbledore had already prevented their entering the area. Three untraceable wands had been lost to Potter, and Goyle, it seemed, had been rendered incapable of moving so much as his little toe. Crabbe and McPherson had also sustained injuries at the hands of the boy. Another figure entered the room even as Malfoy slumped to the ground, the most pathetic puddle of limbs and sweat and tears to ever enter into his service.

Harry sneered at the sight of Malfoy lying there, sobbing and drooling for all he was worth, which must be a lot, to judge by the pool gathering on the stone floor. He thought of disposing of him there and then, but Malfoy, unlike the one to enter the room, shivering openly in terror, had his uses.

"Yes?" Harry asked, without looking at the flabby face he knew so well.

"My Lord and Master, I have come with news." One thing might be said in his favour. He no longer stammered when he made a simple statement. His voice still shook with fear.

"Tell me then, Wormtail. Did the Potter boy escape once more?"

"M-master, he did." The tone was a delicious mixture of apology, dread, and adrenalin. Harry turned towards the flinching, almost entirely bald man, anger showing only in his eyes.

"Did you retrieve the wands?" Harry asked sharply. "Is the boy's wand in your power?"

The way Wormtail's watery blue eyes widened was answer enough.

"Fools! You stupid insensates!" Harry hissed furiously, glaring at his long white fingers. "Malfoy, send for the Wandmaker. As for you, Wormtail... _Crucio_!"

For a few moments, only Wormtail's tortured screams filled the room, before he lay still, unconscious. Harry made an exasperated sound. Even in this regard Wormtail was utterly disappointing; he passed out after a mere few minutes. Anyone, even Malfoy, could have done better. Harry decided to direct his anger to someone else. He had, after all, time enough to train Wormtail up a bit. Build up his endurance, as it were, the cheeky rat. He bent down and touched the Dark Mark on the bald man's forearm. They would come to him and face his wrath. Then they would be sent, once more, to get Potter.

Harry struggled to leave Voldemort's head, his head hurting fit to burst. At least he didn't make a sound, or he thought he didn't. Voldemort seemed oblivious to his presence, even as there was a shuffle of feet and a rustle of robes in the room. Harry turned his back on the Death Eaters as they arrived and took their places, kneeling in front of him like Muslims at the Mosque.

They were praying, certainly.

"My Lord, you called us." The voice was rich and the only female voice he had ever welcomed to hear.

"You are the cream of Wizarding society. You are the purest of the pure, the heirs of the world," Harry said audibly. Behind him, robes rustled. He smiled. "You are my most faithful followers, the terror of the scum that defiles our land, the hope for a future of power, of greatness." Harry paused for a moment, stretching the silence and allowing the tension to build, filling the room as thoroughly as Wormtail's and Malfoy's screams had earlier. They remained prostrated at his feet, hardly daring to breathe, trembling in the knowledge of what was coming to them.

"And yet, I hear that you failed to capture a single... disarmed... and injured _schoolboy,_ whom you fought in a deserted street, my faithful ones. I present you with truly incredible weapons, and... you _loose_ them to _him_. You fail to maintain the wards we have worked so long to devise, so hard to set up_ right under that Mudblood-loving fool's nose_, even. I can hardly find words to describe my... displeasure with you all." He deliberately drew out his speech, his voice almost a gentle whisper.

Harry turned on his heel and surveyed the perfectly humbled Death Eaters assembled before his presence. His eyes roved, seeking a suitable victim. To his right, he saw her, gazing before her, her once terrible beauty lingering still on her drawn face.

Hatred flared.

_You. You killed him..._

Voldemort stopped for a moment, his face unreadable, before he smiled in recognition.

"Ah..." he said softly in recognition, and the room faded to black.

* * *

He was lying on the hard, cold floor of a dark place. He squinted, straining to see ahead of him, but all was shrouded in impenetrable darkness. It took him a while to determine whether or not his eyes were open at all, it was so dark all around him. The heavy silence was broken by a faint dripping sound that echoed off seemingly far-off walls. He tried to stand, and came staggering to his feet, his arms outstretched in front of him to try and find a door, an exit to the place he was in.

He shivered; his Muggle t-shirt stuck damply against his skin, and his feet were bare. He moved to the right, and after some ten paces, his hand made contact with a wall. It was slimy and every bit as slippery as the floor, which additionally seemed to be littered with tiny, pointy pebbles. Or shards of glass, he wasn't sure. After pulling a thorn-like spike from his big toe, Harry was beginning to feel earnestly worried; he followed the wall, wishing for the maddening dripping to stop, to find an exit to this place, for fresh air. Most of all, though, he wished for light. He shivered again. It was so cold there, he felt like the very memory of warmth had been taken from him. He took another sliding step, and his already bruised toe hit a hard surface. He swore quietly, but the sound carried on, echoing off the unseen walls and ceiling like a deadly whisper.

"Who is there?" A raspy, vaguely familiar voice challenged, not too far to his left. The sound echoed off the walls as well, rising in volume so fast Harry covered his ears with his hands. "IsthereIsthereISTHEREISTHERE..."

"Who are you?" the voice inquired yet again, louder, causing the echoes to become a loud, unintelligible roar that sent ripples of vibrations across the room. Harry had the fleeting sensation of being trapped in one of Dudley's speakers, before his heart caught in his throat as he recognised who the voice belonged to.

"Sirius?" he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.

"Siriussiriussirius..." The echoes reverberated across the huge room, Harry's disbelieving voice magnified to a roar, but he didn't care. Sirius was alive and he was here! He started to make his way towards the spot where he thought his godfather was, heedless of the splinter that embedded itself in his foot. He would see Sirius again!

_Please, please let it be him!_ he thought frantically, sliding and stumbling ahead, wishing there would be some light, if only of a lit wand, so he could find Sirius sooner –

"Who is that?" echoed across the room once more.

"Sirius, it's me, it's Harry! Where are you?" Harry called out desperately, now crawling ahead, keeping his right hand pressed against the slimy wall, heedless of the sharp spiky stones that bruised and cut him. "I can't see you – can you see me? Sirius?"

There was no answer, the echo of his last words filling the pitch black room.

"Sirius?" Harry called again, now feeling emptier than he ever had. Going forward was wearisome, and he stopped to rest his aching limbs. "Where are you?"

He waited until the last echo of his call had faded, crawling along the seemingly endless wall.

"Sirius, please – where **are** you?" Harry called, his voice a little too high and rather panicky.

Areyouareyou, the room resonated in response.

"Sirius!"

Harry woke with a start and groaned. His scar was throbbing painfully, and his heart was hammering wildly against his chest. For a moment he didn't know where he was, or why the sun was still shining outside, or why he was curled up on the floor. Then he remembered - _Sirius_! Sirius was in that dark room!

Harry abruptly made to stand, but his body didn't want to respond. He had gone as far as raising himself to a crouch when his chest gave a sharp twinge, making him fall back with another groan. He rubbed his stinging eyes with grimy hands and sighed heavily in defeat.

It had just been a dream. He must've passed out at some point after taking those stupid potions. Sirius wasn't anywhere nearby. He swallowed. His mouth felt very dry and his tongue seemed to have swollen to twice its size and acquired the consistency of old leather while he was out of it.

Dudley's grunting laugh carried from downstairs, and as two more loud voices joined in, Harry's disorientation faded altogether. He made a grunting sound in the back of his throat that couldn't quite be classified as a groan, and looked down at himself; the blood on his trousers was drying, a huge rusty reddish blotch that made it look like he'd been attacked by dear old Fluffy. Or rather like he'd wet himself. His left arm felt leaden but didn't hurt – which had to be a good thing – and the tee shirt he had wrapped it in was soaked in congealing blood that now had acquired roughly the sticky, gelatinous consistency of a booger. He turned his face away from the sight and sweetish smell that filled the room and clung wetly to him like a disease, but of course, that didn't suffice to banish it.

At least he was able to breathe again without sounding like a dementor. Thank the gods for small blessings.

His scar seared again, and he clapped his good hand against it. He had a glimpse of cowering figures, a jolt of anger and frustration, and he knew then that Voldemort didn't believe a word of the flood of excuses brought forth by his Death Eaters. Harry didn't dwell on it; he had more pressing problems to deal with at the moment. The Order hadn't come yet, and he felt distinctly thirsty, nauseous, clammy, and woozy. Not to mention that he needed to check on his arm before he passed out again. Wouldn't do to have it chopped off just because the Order were late, now would it?

He assumed his previous sitting position, and waited for a few moments to get to unsteady legs. He swayed, but in the end he succeeded in standing upright, using his injured arm to hold his ribcage steady. An impatient mewling sound drew his attention. Mr. Tibbles had apparently woken up, but was unable to leave the bag, which lay upside-down on the bed.

Harry freed the feline as quickly as he could without actually keeling over right on top of it, and stared at it in shock. Mr. Tibbles looked like something Buckbeack would cough up, a smelly, sticky tangle of fur, limbs and partially congealed blood. Harry hoped that it belonged to him only, and that a good wash was all that the cat needed. He had been ordered to stay at Privet Drive, and he could not fathom how he could possibly doctor an injured cat. Hell, he hardly knew what to do with himself!

"How are you feeling, Mr. Tibbles?" he managed thickly. His throat burned, and felt very dry.

The cat mewled weakly in response.

"Hang on – I'll... I'll get you some water."

Downstairs, Dudley roared with laughter again. Harry slowly hobbled towards the door of his room, wondering absently if Big D and his friends had beaten up another ten-year-old today.

He reached the bathroom, gritting his teeth at the burning feeling in his scar, splashed enough water on his face to remain alert, and poured Mr. Tibbles some water after he managed to detach himself from the tap. He had never felt so thirsty in his life. Or so shivery. He hobbled back to his room, and gave the water to Mr. Tibbles, who gratefully lapped everything up, seemingly not bothered by the dose of potions Harry had added to the water.

Harry settled down next to him, and dazedly watched the cat curl up and sleep. His thoughts were jumbled, and his head hurting wasn't helping at all. The odd feeling of detachment that had overcome him when he hurt his elbow was creeping in on him, and he let it. He didn't remember what he was supposed to do, although something told him it had to do with his arm. It didn't hurt, though, so he wasn't too worried, and after a while he didn't care anymore. All he desperately wanted to do was to sleep, but he was unable to lie down. The fast, shallow pulsing of his heart, added to the cold sweat that covered him from head to foot, made him feel sleepy and grumpy.

He felt like crying, or cursing, or smashing something up, but couldn't summon the strength to do so. He absently wondered why he felt so miserable all of a sudden, but gave it up. His breathing picked up speed, as though he were running around the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts, and he felt small rivulets of sweat trickle cold down his face, his neck, his chest...

Eventually he dozed off, only to be woken by the insistent buzzing of a fly. Or a swarm of them. He swatted at them irritably, but gave it up the very instant his chest seared. He opened an eye with some difficulty, and sniffled a little. The sweetish-metallic smell of blood that clung to the room so thickly even though the window was open filled his nostrils. He could taste it in his mouth. It made him feel rather more nauseous than he had previously been. He leant back against the wall in exasperation. Broken ribs had definitely made it to his top ten list of least favourite injuries.

He glared at a particularly large fly that insisted on settling on his glasses, apparently not intimidated in the least by him. It even had the cheek to settle on the tip of his nose and begin to _groom_ itself. Harry watched it, slightly cross-eyed, wondering when flies had become so disrespectful. He wrinkled his nose in a half-hearted attempt to make it leave, but it merely continued to rub its eyes with its feelers. Raising an eyebrow at the fly's attitude, he realised it reminded him of... someone.

_Who was that again?_ The name didn't want to come to him – _hang on... it sounded like... Skate. No, that wasn't it. Scooter? Skeeter! She could turn into a bug, she could_... Harry sighed, and the fly buzzed to settle on his glasses again.

_Why are there so many flies in the room?_ he wondered listlessly, bringing his right hand up slowly to wipe some sweat from his face.

Why couldn't he think clearly? And why was he sitting on his bed when he should be doing... er, _something_? Was he waiting for someone? He gave a small, grunting laugh, but it hurt, so he stopped.

Nobody ever visited him, who could he be expecting? That was just silly. He shivered a little, although it was rather warm in the room. Oh, and really stuffy. The sun began to set, bathing the walls of his bedroom in an orange glow. He draped his blanket over his shoulders, covering Mr. Tibbles with it as well as he could. There, that was a little better.

There were voices coming from downstairs. He recognised Dudley's, which was rather easy, he sounded like a pig. There were two more voices, they sounded like those trolls they had used for the Fat Lady in his third year... Dudley always had people visiting him, unlike Harry. It _was_ rather unfair, come to think of it...

The two voices sounded like they were saying good-bye, and sure enough, moments later, he heard the front door open and close.

The cat flap on his door creaked as it was pushed open by a very white hand with highly polished fingernails, and Harry stared blankly at it, watching the plate of roast beef and potatoes and the glass of lemon squash the hand had deposited on the floor for a long time after it had left, and all he could see were shadows all around him. Not that it mattered, everything was blurry anyway...

* * *

He didn't know how long he'd been dozing, but when he opened his eyes again, it was pitch black all around him. What had woken him? He heard something coming up, and an icy feeling shot down his spine. Footsteps were coming closer, and Harry caught himself reaching for his – his insides melted. His wand! His eyes, which had previously been half-closed, snapped open. He'd lost his wand!

He didn't dare to breathe. What if those coming up were Death Eaters? What could he do? He felt his stomach clench and sat bolt upright, the numbness and confusion of earlier receding into a corner of his consciousness. He swallowed, staring at his door like a cornered animal. Then, just as he was considering leaping out his window, Dudley bade his parents good night and slammed the door to his bedroom. Harry let out a sigh of relief. It had just been the Dursleys.

Feeling much more awake after this scare – and berating himself for having the irrational thought of jumping out his window – Harry assessed his situation. His thoughts were no longer pleasantly nonsensical, but much more ordered now he was more alert. He'd been attacked by Death Eaters. But he'd gotten away, thanks to Sirius – whom he still didn't know how to fit in the equation, though – and had lost his wand in the process. Now he was waiting for the Order like a good boy, but there was no sign of any of them. He remembered Crabbe crushing his ribs and Malfoy slicing his arm open, and taking the potions Snape had left him for his elbow, but little else. The rest were flashes of images and feelings scattered in his head, like a puzzle he didn't really want to piece together.

Harry wiped some more sweat from his face and swatted at the annoying fly. He needed to clear this mess up, get rid of the flies, and find a way to retrieve his wand. Ignoring his body's protests against moving so much as an inch, he got to his feet again, and moved gingerly towards the door. He flicked on the lights and picked up the glass of lemon squash from the floor with some difficulty. He was parched, and the sweetish flavour only increased his craving for water. He also needed a good wash, he realised.

Then his scar burned white-hot again, leaving no space for further thoughts or movements. He clutched it with both hands, barely managing a quiet whimper. Something had happened that made Voldemort furious. For the second time, his bedroom dissolved into a dark, high-ceilinged stone chamber, where he stared coldly at a huddle of people robed in black.

"What sort of insolence is this? We have provided you with the cores you need!" Harry hissed in outrage, glaring at the only figure who wasn't dressed in black or cowering.

"My Lord and Master, I am aware. Yet you ask of me the impossible, I cannot make any more if I lack the proper materials," the man said evenly, undeterred by Harry's anger. He bowed his head a little, and added, "The wands cannot be traced by any magical process or device yet known to Wizardkind for a reason, my Lord," he said sensibly in a very rich, deep voice that lacked, however, any sign of authority. "The cores must undergo a careful process of preparation, the details of which your Greatness has brought to a level of perfection I have striven to attain all my life. As you no doubt know, I am more than eager to make you as many Untraceables as your Greatness desires and deserves. However, if your followers carry on loosing the powerful weapons your genius has devised, I, being a mere tool to your supreme will, cannot do more to aid you if I lack the cores, Great Master."

Harry surveyed the man for a moment, his anger redirecting itself to those responsible for the loss of the Untraceables.

"Very well," he hissed viciously, and those in the background flinched. "You shall receive the cores you need." The man calmly rearranged his midnight blue robes and then sank into a perfect, respectful bow.

"You may leave my presence."

"Thank you for your time, my Lord and Master." The man turned on his heel and left, his dragonhide boots silent in the otherwise echoing room.

Harry turned to the Death Eaters once again.

"So many setbacks, solely for that schoolboy!" he spat furiously, flexing his long fingers and gritting his teeth. "You are not worthy of all the privileges I grant you! You are useless, as arrogant as you act towards the rest of the world – you are careless, and do not deserve to be in my service."

"Master, we are not worthy..." a voice mumbled in front of him.

"_Crucio_!"

* * *

Harry groaned and let go of the mouthful of blanket he had been using to prevent from screaming, forcing himself to take deep, steadying breaths. He did not wipe away the tears that flowed down onto the floor, where he was lying once again.

He might as well get rid of his bed and transfer his mattress to the floor; he was spending more time on it than he spent on his bed. He chuckled darkly at the thought. It was a choked, unnatural sound. He unclenched his left hand, wincing at the stabs of pain that shot through it, and freed it from the tangle it had twisted itself in when the punishment of the Death Eaters started. He shook his hand a little, to allow the blood to return to it, and sat up. Since he hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast – which he left in front of Mrs. Figg's anyway – he was glad the bout of nausea that usually overwhelmed him was reduced to a churning of his insides. The feeling was unpleasant, but still better than turning himself inside and out. The smell in the room was bad enough as it was without him chucking his guts up.

He glanced at his watch; it was little past two in the morning, and still there was no sign of the Order. Harry groaned again. This time, the sound was more exasperated than pained. He was sick of this all; waiting for the Order members who didn't come, having Voldemort in his head, of the pain. He was sick and tired of feeling pain. Of feeling, period.

In an effort to rid himself of these annoying thoughts – he was tired of thinking, as well – he forced himself to stand, toed off his trainers and rid himself of his jeans, which had by now acquired roughly the same texture as cardboard, biting back a yelp of pain. He then opened his chest of drawers, grabbed a set of fairly clean clothes, and dragged his behind to the bathroom as quietly as he could, surprised that he could move at all. He closed the door and leant against the sink, opened the tap and washed his hands and face awkwardly, since his left arm didn't feel like cooperating.

It was rather refreshing, although he couldn't take a shower; it was too early for that, and he didn't want to risk facing a disgruntled Dursley, most certainly _not_ on top of all that had happened so far. All in all, he took his jolly good time washing, and it was a while before he looked up.

Had he not known it was him in front of the mirror, he would hardly have recognised himself. He looked worn out and pale, dried blood and grime still visible right under his fringe and around his ears, where he had been unable to wash properly. His reflection stared back thoughtfully. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot – _Fourteen Cruciatus Curses can do that to someone_, he thought grimly –, his scar looked like someone had re-traced it with a scalpel – _Sod you ten times, Voldemort. You and your stupid Death Eaters_ –, and he was so pale he could give Snape a run for his money – _I look a bloody mess_, he decided.

Giving himself what he intended to be an encouraging smile but ended up being a pained sort of grimace, he turned his attention to his arm. It proved an excellent distraction from any kind of dark and unpleasant thoughts, because the blood on the tee shirt had now dried somewhat and stuck to his skin, and he had to be very careful when removing it.

The deep, long cut had not fully closed, and the skin around it looked swollen and stung when he touched it tentatively. After raiding the cupboard behind the mirror, Harry gritted his teeth and washed the wound with plenty of water and one of Dudley's facial soaps (it said 'medicated' on the box). If that had stung, it was nothing compared to what the blue potion felt like. It was a reconstituent potion of sorts, and Harry figured if it helped mend bones, it could mend skin as well.

Well, _that_ _one_ frothed and burned worse than when he'd drunk it, and left him slumped on the floor again, against the wall, thinking he'd gladly give the entire contents of his Gringotts vault in exchange of five minutes of Madam Pomfrey's expert care. In the end, he managed to bandage his arm with the cleanest tee shirt he had been able to find, taking care to tighten it enough to stem the bleeding that had started over. Hopefully it would be the last time he needed to undergo this process.

Ever.

He gathered up his filthy clothes and hobbled out of the bathroom, hoping he would be able to lie down properly at last. At the sight of his bedroom, however, he groaned.

No wonder it was full of flies: the invisibility cloak he had been wearing was splattered with mud and the inside of it, with blood. Mr. Tibbles had, by all looks of it, acquired a swarm of his own, the way he was soaked in the gelatinous and smelly substance. He was resting, at least.

How on earth was he supposed to clean this up? There were splatters of blood everywhere he had touched, lain, or stepped since he returned. There was a long smear along the side of his bed and another where he'd sat against the wall. Harry ran his right hand through his filthy hair. If only he could use magic, that wouldn't be a problem, but being underage and all... His eyes snapped open when he remembered.

For the first time ever, Harry was grateful for the link he shared with Voldemort. He had indeed gotten hold of at least one untraceable wand, hadn't he? That was one of the reasons Voldemort was so mad, wasn't it? As if in response, his scar gave a throb, although it was weak in comparison with earlier.

He got hold of the said wand, took a steadying breath, and muttered, "_Scourgify_." The blood on the invisibility cloak disappeared. A genuine grin spread on Harry's face. With this wand, he'd be able to get away with doing magic! A few scourgifying charms later, the only indication of what had happened earlier could be found by looking at Harry, and that couldn't be helped, now could it?

Mr. Tibbles had protested weakly when he was unceremoniously cleaned with magic, and a little more energetically when Harry pointed his wand at the cat's paw and muttered, "_ferula_", but in the end he stretched out amidst the now clean and warm blankets and purred contentedly, after he'd eaten his fill of Harry's cold and thoroughly unappetizing dinner.

Harry settled himself next to the cat, but remained sitting against the wall, because that was the only position he could endure for more than five minutes. He felt knackered, but seemed to have reached a point of exhaustion beyond sleep. He looked at his alarm clock, which read three in the morning. Although he felt much better now he was more or less clean and undisturbed by any flies or nauseating smells, he felt anxious. His mind had reverted to what seemed to have become its favourite pastime: thinking. And reminding him of things that were important, like his wand.

Harry knew the Death Eaters would try to find it, and because the Order had so far been conspicuous only by their absence, he knew he had to find a way to get it before Voldemort did. He felt strangely vulnerable without it, no matter how reassuring the other wand felt in his hand. For the past five years, he had had his wand with him, and it had become part of him. He had to get it back, as soon as possible.

That meant he had to disobey Dumbledore's orders directly, leave the house, look for his wand, and return, hopefully with it, before the Dursleys woke up. It would be a reckless, stupid, and dangerous thing to do, not to mention pointless, if the Order had found it already.

_But what if a Death Eater found it first?_ Harry's wand was brother to Voldemort's, and that had saved his life once already. He glanced at his alarm clock once more. Three-thirty. His eyes wandered to the pile of clean invisibility cloaks he now owned, and a grim smile played upon his lips despite himself. He _had_ knocked four Death Eaters out, single-handed and without a wand, hadn't he?

_Well_, he thought fairly, _Mr. Tibbles did more than his share_. The cat purred louder and cuddled next to Harry, who thoughtfully stroked his rich fur. It was a nice feeling.

_If I take an invisibility cloak, and fly there... That could just work,_ he decided, absently rubbing his prickling scar. It was annoying, like having Voldemort's heartbeat etched on his skull.

Hedwig had not yet returned; to judge by the sniffling noises and snores coming from the rest of the house, the Dursleys were still fast asleep, and would, with some luck, stay that way for at least a couple hours longer. Harry weighed his options. The members of the Order would surely not barge in before the crack of dawn, but the Death Eaters usually were more active at night.

Summoning his Weasley sweater from his trunk, Harry gently placed Mr. Tibbles back on the bed before he inched his way out of it, a plan fully formed in his mind.

After retrieving his dad's invisibility cloak from his trunk and carefully fastening it to his neck, he cast a Sticking Charm on it so it wouldn't fall off. It wasn't as effective as the Disillusionment Charm Moody had cast last year, but hopefully he would remain unseen. Harry then took his Firebolt, which had been duly returned to him before school ended, from his trunk, and mounted. He was almost shivering with anticipation.

Soundlessly, he flew out of his window and high above the rooftops, squinting in the darkness for any signs of movement, thanking the gods of Quidditch for the little effort he had to make. After a couple of circles around Mrs. Figg's dark house, he cautiously made his way to the ground, landing softly next to the donut on a stick that once had been the ostrich bush. There were no noises, and the back of his neck prickled. He wished himself back in his little room at the Dursleys', instead of doing stupid and reckless things in the middle of the night.

Looking warily left and right, he sidestepped it and hobbled straight to where he had last seen his wand. It was very dark there; all streetlamps had been turned off. He looked around him once more, feeling too much in the open, even despite the invisibility cloak. He saw two fluorescent orbs floating towards him and his breath caught in his throat. What was that? Before he could so much as blink, however, they leapt forward and – and _purred_.

Harry almost laughed out loud out of nerves. He really ought to get used to having Mr. Tibbles sneaking on him like that. He rolled his eyes when the cat started winding around Harry's invisible knees.

Once he had calmed down, he realised the futility of looking for his wand without a light. He shoved Mr. Tibbles gently out of the way with his foot, and muttered, "_Accio_ wand," in the hoarsest of whispers.

There was a faint whooshing sound, and he felt wood between his fingers for an instant, before his wand fell to the ground with a loud clatter.

_Gods..._

Even as he crouched down and picked it up, he heard a door being opened and froze.

_This **isn't** happening..._

He turned around sharply, his wand raised – and recognised Bill standing in Mrs. Figg's doorway. Bill looked left and right, squinting in the darkness, his outline sharpened in the light pouring from inside the house, although none of the windows were lit. The Order were at Mrs. Figg's.

For a long moment, Bill just stood there, scanning the darkened street for any kind of movement. Harry stared right back. Part of him felt relieved, glad to see a capable wizard so close, someone who could help him. And yet... his stomach clenched at the sight. Here were the Order, barely three blocks away from the Dursleys, and yet nobody had come to check on him like they'd promised.

Bill continued to stand in the doorway, and through the open door, Harry could make out a babble of voices.

_They're all here, then. They don't sound too preoccupied, now do they?_ the little voice in his head commented bitterly. Harry had to agree with it. His eyes hardened. _So that's how it's going to be, then._

"What is it, Bill?" a raspy voice called from inside.

"I thought I heard something fall... Mad-Eye, would you mind...?" said Bill.

_Oh, joy._

"Not at all, move aside there, Weasley," the raspy voice replied, followed by the dull clunk – clunk of Moody's mismatched feet.

Harry, who had been holding an inner debate as whether or not to jump up and give Bill a crushing hug and request real medical attention then and there, snapped into motion immediately. Before Mad-Eye reached the doorway, Harry was already hovering high above the rooftop of Mrs. Figg's, hoping he would not be seen. Mad-Eye would certainly hex him into next week so badly, he would have to wait for time to catch up before he could explain himself, and he didn't really feel too keen on adding more wand-induced injuries to his growing list.

What Harry didn't expect was to hear loud mewling from the ground. He watched, horrified, as Mad-Eye's scarred face twisted into a very scary grin and his wand pointed at Mr. Tibbles.

"Aha, there you are!" Mad-Eye said triumphantly, taking aim. Harry could do nothing but stare.

"Mr. _Tibbles_!" rang loudly from the house, and Harry nearly fell off his broom in shock upon hearing Mrs. Figg's slightly hysterical voice. "Oh, my Mr. Tibbles, I've been worried _sick_ – Where have you _been_? – Get out of the way, Alastor! _What do you think you are doing!_"

"Don't move, Arabella – _that_ could be an Animagus." Mad-Eye growled back.

"_What_! That's no Animagus – ALASTOR, THIS - IS - MY - CAT! STOP POINTING THAT _THING_ AT HIM THIS INSTANT!" Mrs. Figg shrieked, and Harry watched her hurrying forward to pick Mr. Tibbles up protectively, glaring at Mad-Eye, who looked rather disgruntled.

Harry chuckled darkly. Ron was right, he did find luck in the unlikeliest places.

The flight back to number four went faster and was as uneventful as he had hoped. So far, so good. He had his wand back, he hadn't been seen, and Mrs. Figg had saved Mr. Tibbles from a paranoid ex-Auror.

He folded his dad's invisibility cloak and placed it under his pillow, next to both wands, before he lay down properly. Granted, his ribcage didn't feel too happy about it, but his back thanked him effusively, and that sort of made up for the discomfort he would be feeling anyway, whatever he did. He pointedly avoided thinking about the Order. He could deal with that particular bit of information later.

With this in mind, he removed his glasses, and fell fast asleep at last.

* * *

TBC. 


	6. Welcome to the Twilight Zone

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter, its characters and everything worth reading is owned by JK Rowling, as just about the entire world knows by now. Since I am not JK Rowling, I have to write this disclaimer thing, which is always fun, just to tell you that I regrettably own only those things you do not recognise from anywhere else. The list of things I do not own is so long it could easily compete with the phonebook in word count; I shall not bore you witless with it, and mercifully leave it at that.

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to ShinigamiPhoenix, for reasons she and I both know, and to Gallandro83, for the absolutely fantabulous advertising of this humble fic.

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Welcome to the Twilight Zone!**

Something was sitting on his back, emitting cooing noises. He groaned in response. The heavy something made a noise like the shuffling of the pages of a book. The weight then disappeared with a flapping sound, only to deposit itself rather abruptly on his head.

"Go away…" Harry mumbled into his pillow. He curled into a warm ball underneath his blankets and would have carried on sleeping despite the claws sinking into his scalp, if it hadn't been for the…

"Hoot." It was a gentle, prodding sound. Harry showed no reaction, only rubbed his prickling scar and buried himself deeper into his pillow.

"Hoot?"

"Mmmph… leave me alone, I'm trying to sleep…"

"Hoot." This time around, the sound was impatient. The Dursleys would hear it sooner or later…

"_Hoot_." It was growing louder as well. Harry muttered something rather unflattering and wrenched his eyes open. He felt the weight leave his head and hop onto the mattress next to him. It was Hedwig. She cocked her head to the side questioningly.

"What is it?" Harry mumbled, half asleep still. His eyes felt like lead and very dry. He had a hard time blinking, as if someone had poured sand under his eyelids… he swallowed. His throat felt sore and his mouth felt papery, an aftertaste of bile lingering there. He closed his eyes again, too tired to think.

"Hoot." Now she sounded admonishing. He did his best to ignore her. Hedwig nipped at his ear.

"Nooo… _Gah_!" Harry covered his head with his hands, in a futile attempt to drown out the sound. If he could only sleep five more minutes…

"_Hoot_!"

"Gnnn… all right, all right, I'm up…" Harry pushed himself up, noticing absently his left hand felt heavy and clumsy, and sat bolt upright, blinking stupidly at his snowy owl, who regarded him impassively. "Hello there… You're back, I see…" He yawned and slumped against the wall. "Now what is it you want?" he muttered, annoyance etched all across his face. His scar felt raw and prickled, his arm was heavy and unresponsive, and his head felt ready to burst.

It was still dark outside, and his alarm clock informed him it was five in the morning. Harry scowled; he'd gotten a solid fifty minutes of sleep.

_So much for my beauty rest._

A fluttering sound from the window caught his attention, and he barely had wits enough to avoid being hit by his copy of the Daily Prophet. So that's why Hedwig had woken him. He should have felt glad she'd remembered to do so; the Prophet owls usually screeched and flapped their wings very loudly when they delivered, and that would translate roughly into loads of trouble with the Dursleys. Only Harry was too put out to feel thankful at the moment. Sending a longing glance at his bed, he dragged himself up and paid his five Knuts, before he slumped back against the wall in defeat. Sleep simply wouldn't come so easily again.

Dawn broke; the birds were singing, and the first rays of a reddish sun struck Privet Drive in what promised to be a surprisingly clear, colourful and warm summer day.

"How sodding _perfect_," he snarled at the cheery sight developing outside his window, while he put on a pair of trainers that had more holes in them than a Swiss cheese. He found that he could move much more easily now; the pain in his chest still lingered, but the burning and grinding sensation he had so far endured was gone. It was a blessing to able to fish his shoes from under his bed and tie his shoelaces without feeling like he was being skewered around the middle. He felt infinitely better, though. Still stiff and sore and tired, but infinitely better all the same.

Stomach rumbling, he pocketed his wands and stowed both invisibility cloaks in his trunk. Mrs. Figg's bag followed, surprisingly heavy even without Mr. Tibbles inside, before he slammed the lid shut.

He spent the next half hour perched on the toilet seat, peeling the tee shirt he had used as a bandage off his arm with gritted teeth, not trusting himself to simply vanish it. He remembered Lockhart's failed attempt in his second year too vividly for that. It was like removing a giant band aid, seeing as the cloth had very much glued itself to the wound, and the dried blood had formed a large scab he had to pick his way through in order to wash his arm. On the plus side, the deep cut had closed, leaving a long, dark red scar that stood out starkly against his too-pale skin.

He had regained almost full capacity of movement, however, and in the face of things, he thought he should be congratulated for his decisions. He washed as thoroughly as he dared, the cold water soothing the swelling sensation in his scar and arm, both of which prickled maddeningly, and returned to his room, feeling much more awake but still groggy. It was a strange feeling, to have his body so completely numbed and his mind working at such an ungodly hour. His heart was racing with the effort, and he found himself panting shallowly, as if he'd run a great distance. It did nothing to increase his mood, and he noticed he didn't mind being mad at the world for a change.

When he entered, closing the door quietly behind him, Hedwig had already tucked her head under her wing. He regarded her for a moment, before rolling his eyes and slumping on the bed, grabbed his Daily Prophet with a derisive snort at his rotten fate, and irritably began to read it, deliberately avoiding the front page. It would have nothing but depressing news anyway, and he had all day to deal with _those_, after all.

Madam Malkin was having another sale – _Lavender and Parvati will be thrilled to hear_ –, the Tutshill Tornadoes had steamrollered the Chudley Cannons 280 to 90 – _Ron will be sodding pissed about that_–, his horoscope said he would be in for a big surprise – _I hope I'll get to decline that one,_ he thought with a humourless snort –, the Weasley Twins had placed a full-page ad, complete with a list of their more recent creations – _those Fettuccini-Flavoured Flame-Throwing Firecrackers sound a treat, imagine getting Malfoy's hair after eating one_ –, and Eeyelops Owl Emporium had imported a new breed of messenger owls, by the name of Canadian Creamy, apparently excellent for long, urgent deliveries – _I'd like to see those try and beat Hedwig any day _–, when his reading was disrupted by a loud screech from downstairs.

"Boy!" Aunt Petunia's voice, shrill and commanding, carried from the kitchen, much as it had every morning since Mad-Eye and Snape had last visited. "Breakfast, now!"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. That voice always made his ears hurt. He heaved a sigh. Whatever had he done to deserve this?

"Get your lazy behind out of bed and _down here_!"

"I'm coming already," he called back exasperatedly, throwing his Daily Prophet aside and summoning a sweatshirt to cover the scar and assortment of bruises he had received the day before, which were, thankfully, becoming less visible by the hour. He strongly suspected the blue potion had had something to do with that. He'd have to take another dose...

"DON'T YOU _DARE_ GIVE YOUR AUNT THAT TONE, BOY!" Uncle Vernon hollered from the kitchen. Harry raised an eyebrow. He hadn't even heard them get up.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Harry muttered angrily, abruptly standing and taking a stride towards the door. Next thing he knew, he had fallen back on his bed, and his room was swimming around him. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and rose once more, this time taking care to move slowly. His knees felt like jelly, and the rest of his body seemed reluctant to obey to his commands.

He took a moment to regard himself in the cracked mirror in his wardrobe. He was still as pale as paper, the rings under his eyes had grown, if that was possible, and to sum it up, he looked like the living dead. _Well, it's not like that can be helped, now can it?_

Harry remembered to take a last dose of the potions before he forced himself to eat. Shuddering at the awful burning in his stomach, he served Hedwig the remains of his small slice of roast beef before he vanished the contents of his dinner plate with a wave of his newly-acquired wand. The knowledge that he was no longer bound to the Ban on Underage Wizardry heartened him a little, however sour and weak and irritable he felt at the moment.

His relatives' angry muttering carried from downstairs, and he scowled again. He was not in the mood to put up with the Dursleys. It was not like they cared about him, anyway. This charade, however necessary Dumbledore thought it was for his survival, was really grating on his nerves. He took a few tentative steps towards the stairs, his anger at Dumbledore increasing with every pained movement he had to make.

By the time he reached the hall, some five minutes later, he was sweating. The smell of eggs and sausages filled the air, and his stomach grumbled again. He waited until the dizziness had subsided, wiped his face dry, and entered the kitchen.

Uncle Vernon was already having breakfast, hidden quite ineffectively behind his Morning Post as if it were some sort of protective barrier between him and his nephew, who took his usual seat while scratching his head.

"Eat," Aunt Petunia snapped at him, shoving some food his way, her lips a thin line.

Harry looked at the scant meal with distaste. He knew Aunt Petunia only made breakfast for him because she was afraid Moody would show up again and turn her into a mop or something. Particularly after that incident – what was it, six days ago now? Harry would be grateful just to silence her, though.

He picked at his already cold food with an expression of utter disinterest; mere instants earlier, his insides had been churning with hunger, yet now, a single look at his plate had taken it all away. He noticed his hand was shaking.

"You look an _absolute_ _mess_." Harry looked up. He had been unaware of his aunt's scrutiny, but she went on in an exaggeratedly outraged tone, "I don't care what it is you're trying to prove, but I shall not tolerate this filth in my house! You shall take a shower and change those _appalling_ clothes. Do you understand?" She eyed him as if he had chosen to wear those torn jeans, he noted listlessly. It wasn't as if he dressed the way he did out of his own accord, now was it? Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to get worked up about the whole matter. It simply had gone on too long, and he had, after all, more important things to worry about than a pair of ruddy jeans...

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry mumbled, his thoughts drifting away from breakfast and already occupied with the Order's absence the previous day. Why hadn't they come, but stayed at Mrs. Figg's? Could it be that they'd forgotten to check on him? Or maybe they didn't care? He suppressed a sigh.

"Eat, boy."

"Uh-huh..." Should he hand the spare invisibility cloak he now owned to the Order? Mentally he bristled. No way. He'd give it to Ron and Hermione. They could certainly find a good use for it, couldn't they, there _was _a war going on after all, and they had become primary targets because they were his friends.

Harry gritted his teeth. Yes, that would be the best option. Ron and Hermione first and foremost would need as many weapons under their sleeves as they could get their hands on, and they hardly fit under Harry's cloak as it was. They had simply outgrown the time where they had plenty of room in there together. Besides, he mused, Crabbe's cloak was so large they could cut it in half and make two decent-sized ones in a blink –

"You heard your aunt, boy," Uncle Vernon hissed furiously, lowering his Morning Post momentarily to glare at Harry.

"I did, yeah..." Harry mumbled, sounding faintly apologetic. "I'm not very hungry, is all..."

There was a silence, only broken by Uncle Vernon's shuffling of his newspaper and Aunt Petunia's sniffling. Harry took a tentative bite of sausage, then another, mainly to excuse himself from the table as soon as possible. He was feeling woozy again. Surprisingly enough, he did not have a hard time cleaning his plate. Granted, it didn't even come close to Mrs. Weasley's cooking, or even Tom's, but he felt famished all of a sudden.

He finished his meagre meal, hungrier than before, and noticed that the dizziness and numbness had all but left him. Who'd have known that what he needed was some food?

"Well?" Uncle Vernon inquired impatiently, making Harry shoot him a questioning glance. His aunt and uncle were watching his every movement.

"Well what?" Harry asked indifferently, wondering if they'd yell at him if he went and buttered himself some toast.

Uncle Vernon went purple in the face, like he always did when he had to be halfway civil to Harry. If it were up to him, Harry'd be living on the streets at the moment. Harry briefly wondered if he would rather prefer this option.

"Have you written to – to... to _you know who_?" Vernon squeezed out at last, making Harry look up sharply.

_What?_ He was certain he had misheard.

"You-Know-Who?" Harry asked blankly and then frowned. Why in the name of Quidditch would he be writing to _Voldemort_, of all people?

"Don't play stupid with me, boy!" Vernon shouted, and then hissed in a voice so low Harry had to strain his ears and inch closer to hear what he was saying, "Those... your lot. _Have you written to them_?"

_Oh, right. You'd want to know, wouldn't you? _Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance.

"I wrote them the day before yesterday," he said noncommittally, and then paused, thinking of a way to break the news to the Dursleys. Two Order members were still supposed to drop by sometime, after all.

"Good," said Uncle Vernon, sounding relieved. "I don't want to see those freaks ever again."

"Two of them are coming," Harry said tonelessly, choosing the direct approach. Aunt Petunia gasped and brought her hands to her face. Harry, for his part, didn't even flinch at his uncle's outraged reaction. It wasn't as though it was unexpected, after all. Not bothering to admire the prompt changing of colours in his uncle's face, he took a piece of toast and buttered it as liberally as he dared.

"WHAT DID YOU DO THIS TIME?" Uncle Vernon boomed, flecks of spit flying everywhere. Harry covered his toast, on which he had been spreading some marmalade, with his napkin, unabashed by this display. It wasn't like he had never seen it before, after all. "EH? WHAT DID YOU TELL THEM?"

"I told them nothing," he answered coolly when Uncle Vernon paused to hyperventilate a little. "They wrote last night, saying they were coming over soon." He took a bite of his toast, glancing in Uncle Vernon's direction, to check if his toast would remain devoid of the man's infamous flying spittle. He looked like he was going to blow up, the way he was puffing.

"Don't you give me that old tosh!" Uncle Vernon shouted, and Harry saved his toast just in time. "You – you are trying to set them on us!" He pointed a shaking finger at Harry, who took another bite.

"Set who on you?" Harry asked back idly, his mouth full of toast.

"Don't give me that pathetic innocent display, you _freak_!" Uncle Vernon snarled, beyond rage. "Do I look stupid to you?"

Harry chose not to answer and shrugged, taking another bite. Uncle Vernon took a breath and carried on shouting.

"Not eating, making that racket all night, looking like a bloody filthy hoodlum just to spite us – I shall not tolerate it any longer, you hear?" He leaned forward, so that his purple face was so close to Harry's that the latter could feel his moustache grazing his ear. "I've let you keep your freaky stuff, I let you eat in your sodding room, I haven't been giving you chores, and I SHALL NOT LET YOU PRETEND WE MISTREAT YOU!"

"All right, then." Harry shrugged and calmly examined his toast, as if nobody were leaving him deaf less than a foot away. This lack of reaction, more than anything else so far, compelled Uncle Vernon to shut up for a minute. Or maybe it was because he'd run out of air again, if the heaving gasps were any indication. Harry finished his toast, and turned to look his uncle in the eye.

"It's not like I have a say in it," he said flatly, a tired expression on his lean face. "I don't have a choice in this whole business, and neither do you."

"Oh no, boy." Uncle Vernon growled menacingly, "I do have a say! You shall write to them this very instant, and tell them they are not to come here!"

"Can't. They forbade me to send out any owls." Harry reached out for two more slices of toast, not caring if his relatives were upset about it. "They'll come anyway, no matter what I write," he added after a moment of thought.

"I can't believe it!" Uncle Vernon boomed furiously. "If they're so keen on seeing you boy, why don't they take you? Eh? Why don't they leave us alone?"

Harry shrugged, his attention fixed on his toast. Unlike the rest of the wizarding world, the reasons for him having to return to Surrey every summer were well-known in this house, at least to his aunt and uncle. They loathed these arrangements as much as he did – the only matter they had ever agreed wholeheartedly upon.

For a while, the only sounds to be heard in the kitchen were those of Harry, eating slowly. And of Uncle Vernon's brain grinding into action; Harry could almost hear the gears turning.

"Listen here, boy," Vernon pranced, slamming his paper down on the table so that Aunt Petunia gave a little start next to him. "I couldn't care less if this Waldemar bloke – "

"Voldemort," Harry corrected automatically, taking a large gulp of water.

"Whatever his name is. I don't care if he's after you, I don't care if you are so damn important to the world, and I shall not tolerate this any longer!"

"And what's your plan, then?" Harry asked, sounding faintly amused.

"I shall lock you in the shed if those weirdoes come near this house again!"

Harry closed his eyes briefly. The prospect of living in the shed might be bleak, but he had to admit he didn't mind overmuch. It was roomier and he might not hear Dudley's snores all night long, with any luck.

"Do you honestly think I am doing this to bother you?" he said with a humourless laugh. "I'd rather be anywhere else than stuck here every year, having to put up with you just because someone _else_ thinks it's safer." He glared at his uncle in a way that made him back up a little. "I hate being here as much as you do, but I told you already – it's not like I have a choice in this at all."

"So this Lord Whatsits is still after you, eh?" Uncle Vernon snapped. "To kill you and all that grout?"

"Yep." It came out matter-of-factly, as if Vernon Dursley had been asking him whether he'd pruned the bushes, and he noticed Aunt Petunia looked rather green. She hadn't removed her hands from her mouth yet, and stared at him like a giraffe caught in the headlights.

"And that crackpot teacher of yours – he's the one keeping you here?"

"Uh-huh."

"Here's what you'll do, boy," Uncle Vernon snarled, licking his lips. "You shall take a shower and change those filthy clothes. Then you shall wait here until those weirdoes come. Petunia and I are going out for the day, and Dudders will leave for a Boxing competition in Pickering in a few hours. And when those mishaps of nature come, you shall tell them they are not to come again, and that I do not want them near my family. Understood?"

Harry surveyed his uncle, swallowed and said, "That'll be useless."

"I DON'T BLOODY CARE! YOU DO AS I SAY!" Vernon bellowed, slamming his fist on the table and sending his plate flying. "AND CLEAN THAT UP!"

* * *

He regarded the pile of clothes now littering his bed and idly sifted through them, grateful that Dudley had finally lost his liking for neon colours. Aunt Petunia had given him new cast-offs to wear, and he was surprised to find that they were actually almost new. Not to mention smaller than the average six sizes too large he usually wore; apparently, Aunt Petunia had either made a mistake when shopping for her Dinky Duddydinkdums, or the clothes had shrunk in the wash. A couple of Shrinking Charms would do the trick, really, now that he had the means – he'd leave the clothes baggy enough to avoid questioning from his aunt, but small enough to fit him. He'd do that later, maybe, if he found the strength to do so.

He missed Mr. Tibbles already. He truly appreciated why Mrs. Figg was so obsessed with her cats now. They made for pretty good company, actually. Harry resolved then and there to spoil the cat rotten if he ever had the chance. True, he had Hedwig – and he felt a pang of guilt at the thought – but she didn't cuddle and purr.

Giving a shuddering yawn, he cast a glance at his clock. It was shortly past ten in the morning, and the Dursleys had all left, locking Harry out of his bedroom. Harry rolled his eyes and smirked. He had, of course, unlocked it with magic as soon as he heard them leave the driveway, and now sat on his bed, fending off sleep by any means possible and trying to avoid falling into the circular train of thought that nevertheless made it to the surface.

There were simply too many implications in the last events for him to process, and none of the conclusions he came to sounded comforting in any way. There was the matter of Death Eaters entering Little Whinging and hopping about as if they owned the place. What kind of spells had they used? It was as if the whole world had gone deaf and blind while it happened. And then there was the blue ward-thing; he believed that the Death Eaters had placed it all around the neighbourhood. That would explain why the Death Eaters had not followed him straight away, at any rate. It had nearly drowned him, but he had managed to cross it. And then everything had returned to normal, as if nothing had happened. Harry didn't understand how that was possible. The wards or whatever turned the Dursleys' impenetrable had done their share, he guessed, to judge by the fact that he was still alive.

Not to mention that the Order had not shown up, despite their claims of knowing what had happened. According to Bellatrix Lestrange, the munchers had spent a week setting up the trap, right under the Order's nose. Was there a traitor amongst them? They had assembled at Mrs. Figg's, hadn't they, and they hadn't sounded distressed. Had they not wanted to cause any more disruptions, or wanted to avoid trouble with the Dursleys? That would be the lamest excuse ever, really. Or maybe they just didn't know what had happened? Had they simply been unable to help and assumed he was all right? They had mentioned 'new arrangements for his safety', but nothing else.

Harry's face hardened. Last year it took them four days to come, what indication was there that this year would be any different? And last year, he remembered, he had gotten rid of those dementors on his own, and they hadn't even bothered to explain what they were up to. What they were arranging for his safety, just like they were doing now.

Harry let out a frustrated sigh. He hated the lack of information. It was maddening how he received more from Voldemort himself than from those who were supposed to handle his protection. Harry remembered, now that he felt a little better, that Voldemort was planning yet another assault on him. Hardly surprising, that, actually. If there was one thing he knew about Voldemort, it was that he was the damnedest, most stubborn bastard ever to slither on the face of the earth.

Sadly, most of the details had escaped him; By the time Voldemort was done, the Death Eaters had long been reduced to bulky masses babbling incoherent nonsense. What he knew was that they'd go after "someone who knows too much", whoever that was, apart from him. He was certain Voldemort had hand-picked another couple of targets (the sentence "Get them, whatever the cost" stood clearly out in his mind), but other than that, he was clueless as to how they'd get on about it.

He rubbed his prickling scar. There was also the matter about the cores. Voldemort was, no doubt, making wands for his inner circle, at least. It did not take a genius to figure out that this was a very pressing problem. If the untraceable wands couldn't be, well, traced, then the Death Eaters would be able to pull off just about anything their twisted little minds devised, and that wasn't good at all.

_But there's nothing I can do about it, at least not until the sodding Order come here. If they come at all._

He blinked hard, trying to get over the feeling of powerlessness and anger trying to surface. He'd save it for the Order. For Dumbledore.

Casting about for something to do lest he should fall asleep and the wards protecting Privet Drive fail – hey, it _could_ happen –, he decided to read up on hexes.

_Just in case they don't come and Sod's Law applies again_.

A few moments later, he had levitated his trunk next to him and opened its lid, a silly grin on his face. This was definitely something he could easily get used to. His eyes immediately fell upon Mrs. Figg's bag, still bulky and slightly squashed on top of all his things. He opened it, and swatted away a few flies that had been trapped in there. His jaw dropped at the sight.

_I should start a collection, _he thought, his grin positively giddy, before he cast a scourgifying charm and added Malfoy's invisibility cloak to the others. But it was what was lying underneath the cloak that nearly made his eyes pop out of their sockets. He blinked, relief and disbelief etched in his every feature – two wands were lying there, at the bottom of the bag, along with two cans of cat food he resolved not to touch (he believed them to be portkeys of some sort), and a couple of vials he suspected contained Polyjuice Potion.

He closed the bag again, after summoning the wands to him, and, struck by inspiration, transfigured it into a piece of paper and burned it, tipping the ashes into his garbage bin.

He spent a while happily testing out the wands on his new clothing, settling for a supple mahogany one, which seemed to provide the best results. A few waves of his wand later, Hedwig's cage was clean, his rubbish had disappeared, and his new cast-offs were stowed in the wardrobe. He surveyed his handiwork with pride.

The day was definitely looking up.

After stowing his new acquisitions plus his wand under the loose floorboard that contained his most prized possessions, Harry picked up one of the Defence books Sirius and Remus had given him for Christmas, and slowly made his way to the living room, to wait for the Order.

* * *

The sun was setting on the horizon when the doorbell rang, startling Harry from his note-taking. Whipping out his wand, he instantly checked all windows before taking a deep breath and steeling himself to open the door, cursing the Dursleys in his mind for never installing a peephole. The doorbell rang again; he scowled. If there was anyone who deserved to be paranoid in the world, it was him.

He opened the door just enough to see the visitors clearly. Outside stood Mad-Eye, what could only be Tonks, and – Snape.

"Wotch—" Tonks was saying cheerfully, just as Harry slammed the door in their faces.

"What the—" Snape was saying, but the rest of it was drowned out by Moody's harsh laugh.

A few paces into the Hall, concealed by the wall to the living room, Harry stood, his wand raised.

Loud rapping followed.

"Open up, Potter, we do not have endless time for you!"

"How many were supposed to come?" Harry shouted back, his temper rising.

He heard angry mutters, and Tonks said, "See? I told you he's not stupid, Snape." She seemed to find this funny, for some reason.

"If he had some sense, he would let us in and stop acting like a conceited imbecile," Snape's voice carried coldly through the door.

"Potter, will you let us in?" Moody's gruff voice said next. He too, seemed amused.

"Just answer the blasted question!" Harry shouted again, "How many?"

"Potter, unlike others, I do not feel the need to justify my every action to the likes of you. Open the door before I tear it down." Snape's tone was murderous. So was Harry's.

"Yeah? Well, go right ahead!" he yelled back. "I'd like to see you try, go on!"

"Harry, open up," Tonks' voice said. "Two of us were supposed to come, but in the face of things Dumbledore decided to send us in groups of three, it's safer."

"In the face of things," Harry echoed furiously, "Prove it. It's safer."

There was some indistinct shuffling on the other side of the door for a few moments, which Harry took to check the surroundings a little more thoroughly. If those outside were Death Eaters, they'd likely try to enter through different locations at once. There was some scoffing and angry muttering from Snape's part. Moody chuckled, and Tonks said, "Wotcher, that will work!"

A paper something was pushed under the door. Harry approached cautiously, and saw the photo of the original Order of the Phoenix, waving at him as merrily as it had the year before. Harry's eyes remained fixed on Sirius, who was sneaking up behind James to smack him upside the head. There was a noise from outside that sounded like someone clearing their throats.

Harry opened the door again, sidestepping the photograph.

Tonks, her hair spiky and black this time, beamed at him. "Wotcher, Harry!" she said cheerfully, as if nothing had happened, but her face fell the next moment as he glared at them in welcome. Without a word, he opened the door fully and retreated to the living room, gesturing to Moody he could pick up his photo himself.

"Dear lord, Potter," Snape drawled, "your manners equal those of a cave troll."

"And your counting skills surpass mine."

"Potter, why didn't you touch the picture?" Moody inquired, that grin on his face that somehow made him look like he'd sprung out of a horror movie.

"And activate a portkey?" Harry sank down onto an armchair and grabbed his notes.

"Good job!" Moody barked appreciatively. "Constant Vigilance, boy!"

Harry ignored him.

There was a silence, during which Mad-Eye surveyed the surroundings, to judge by the way his eye rolled incessantly in all directions. Tonks had plucked Harry's defence book from the coffee table and was leafing through it, and Snape was sneering at Harry from the doorway.

"Well?" Harry broke the silence after a few moments. He was getting impatient, not to mention annoyed with their acting as if nothing had happened.

"Looks like the wards are intact," Moody snarled with satisfaction.

"How are you doing, Harry?" Tonks asked before Harry could demand Moody to explain himself, looking up from the book and surveying him head to toe.

Harry shrugged in response. Honestly, what did she want him to say? He felt a lot better, yes, but he did not feel he was doing 'fine'. Not by a long shot.

"Where are your aunt and uncle, Potter?" Moody barked from the far end of the living room, where he was glaring at the street outside.

"They left this morning. My uncle doesn't want you to come anymore, drives him up the wall. Why didn't you come earlier?" Harry said through clenched teeth, determined to breach the subject. "I've been waiting for you since—"

"We've been rather busy, Potter," Mad-Eye answered before Harry could finish.

"Dumbledore said you would come yesterday." Harry snapped heatedly, shooting Mad-Eye a venomous look. "He said you knew what had happened, about the Death Eaters–" Before he could finish the sentence with "...attacking me", pathetic as that sounded in his ears, Snape cut him off.

"Did he, now?" Snape's sneer widened. "What happened yesterday is one of those things that do not concern you in the slightest." Harry gritted his teeth and glared at him.

"That's where you're wrong." he snarled back. His temper was rising, and he did not try to control it. They had promised to come and check on him, and now they were finally here, they acted as if nothing had happened. It made no sense. Maybe they didn't know? But then, why had Dumbledore told him they did?

"I brought you a fair few things, Harry," Tonks said after a moment of tense silence, in an attempt to lighten the mood, no doubt. She opened her handbag – a shapeless thing with loads of longish threaded pieces of leather, like an Indian would wear – and extracted from it a wad of letters, a package, and what looked like a large lunch bag. Harry was forcibly reminded of his first encounter with Dobby. Therefore, it took him next to no time to put two and two together.

"You – you've been intercepting my mail?" The reaction was still the same as it had been back then: shock and disbelief, but now anger and betrayal had made it into the mix. He hadn't known Dobby, had he? But Tonks was supposed to be his friend!

"You know how it is, Harry," she said with a wink, handing him the letters. "These are all free of hexes and devoid of portkeys."

He took them, eyeing Tonks furiously. The spark needed for the fire to catch had been created.

"You have been _reading my mail_!"

"No, not at all, Harry," Tonks said easily, looking curiously at him. "We only checked them for hexes and the like. That's a bit of food and butterbeer, from Molly," she went on, pointing to the lunch bag, "she thinks the Dursleys aren't feeding you enough – I couldn't agree more, by the way. And this here – she gestured to the package she had placed on the table – is from Fred and George Weasley, with their best regards."

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to do that?" Harry shouted, his face feeling hot.

"Calm down, Potter—"

"Harry, it's all for your safety, you know that," Tonks said reasonably, not in the least taken aback by his outraged eruption. "Dumbledore said—"

"He did, did he?" Harry snapped back, aware only now he had just gotten to his feet. "Well, just so you know, HE DIDN'T TELL _ME_ A SODDING – BLOODY – THING! ALL RIGHT? WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT!" he turned to face Snape, who was snickering softly.

It was maddening.

"As much as you believe we need to explain ourselves to you, Potter, I am afraid you are deeply mistaken," Snape sneered from the doorway. "The Order, apart from babysitting your poor, fragile little self, does indeed have other priorities, none of which are of your concern."

Harry glared at Snape, who wore the most triumphant little sneer ever to have disfigured his features. What the devil did the git mean by that? As far as Harry was concerned, he didn't only want the information, he _needed_ it.

And by Godric, he'd get it.

"As for the moment," the Potions Master went on in a lazy drawl, "we have been appointed the annoying task to inform you of the arrangements that have been met. Your subscription to the Daily Prophet has been cancelled; your mail and paper shall be delivered to you by whichever Order member is unfortunate enough to inspect your _well-being._" Snape paused, clearly enjoying Harry's furious reaction to his every word, but then plunged on,

"You are henceforth not to leave the house, unless you are accompanied by two or more members of the Order or by your aunt or cousin. You are not to send any owls, nor attempt to contact anyone – if the headmaster feels so inclined, he shall communicate with you directly. You are not to attempt to contact the Order members who have the task of guarding you, either, and they shall not make themselves known to you. Lastly," he smiled outright at this point, "you are to deliver a complete journal of dreams at the end of each day, to the ones inspecting your well-being. Is that clear?"

This could_ not be happening._ Of all the disconnected, apparently unrelated things he had ever witnessed, these instructions were the least fitting. Of the Death Eater attack, there was no mention, and it was as though it hadn't happened at all!

"No, it's not." Harry said shortly, his eyes glinting at the Potions Master, whose face contorted into a hideous grimace. "I want to know what happened with the Death Eaters who were here yesterday."

"I am so truly sorry to hear that," Snape said softly, breaking the tense silence that filled the room as soon as the words left Harry's mouth. "The headmaster gave us specific instructions not to touch the subject. You see, Potter, he doesn't want to _distress_ you any further."

Harry's teeth gnashed together. This was unbelievable!

"Those – Harry here inserted a string of expletives that would have made Sirius proud – are after me. I have _every right_ to know what happened! I don't give a bloody rat's arse what Dumbledore says!"

"What happened, Harry?" Tonks asked abruptly, taking a step towards him and stumbling into a vase, which fell to the floor with a crash.

"THAT'S WHAT I'D LIKE TO KNOW!" he shouted back, whipping around to face her now. "_THEY_ WERE HERE YESTERDAY, UNLIKE YOU!"

"How close did they get, Potter?" Mad-Eye snapped at once, turning to look at him with both eyes.

"Answer the question!" Snape shouted, an undertone of urgency in his voice. Aha.

"You tell me first. Why—"

"Potter, this is important!" Mad-Eye barked.

"Oh, is it?" Harry shot back. "Could've fooled me." What did Mad-Eye mean by that? It was almost as if... as if they didn't know what had happened. But the letter said that –

_They don't know. They don't know a thing._ The realisation hit him like a hammer, and he felt suddenly dizzy. He sank back down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

"How close did they get?" Mad-Eye barked again, but his voice sounded strangely strained.

"Close enough." Harry muttered. A headache was starting to build above his left eye, and his arm was itching rather badly. He scratched it through his sweatshirt, trying to make sense of this situation. Snape swore under his breath, but otherwise everyone was silent.

"I think I should call Dumbledore," Mad-Eye growled, surveying Harry closely. He turned around and made as if to leave the room, and Harry found himself staring as the ex-Auror picked up the telephone and dialled a number, then proceeded to have a hurried, whispered exchange. After a few moments, he returned to face Harry.

"He is on his way, Potter." Mad-Eye said.

Harry glared up at him.

"I think I deserve an explanation."

* * *

TBC. 


	7. Status Quo

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, its characters and everything worth reading is owned by JK Rowling, not me. Which is why I thank JKR for letting us play with her fantabulous creation. I also thank my muse, Sirius Black, alleged mass-murderer, unregistered Animagus and cuddly grim, with whom I share my brain, for having decided to move into my head after the killer curtain had its go at him. Without him, this fic would never have occurred to me. This is long, but I am allergic to lawsuits and had to tell you. That said, you may read on.**

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and complained about Dumbledore. Special commendation to those who called him names! Dumbledork is my new favourite, hehehe. Another special mention must go to my reverse-beta-reader, co-keeper of Sirius, and Wreckmate Japonica. I suggest you read her Always and her other one-shots, and review. :wink:

* * *

**Chapter Seven – Status Quo**

Harry glared at them, his face impassive, waiting for their version of the previous day's attack. Nobody seemed to want to answer, though, until he broke the very uncomfortable silence.

"Well?" he asked shortly, his eyes glinting at Mad-Eye. "What happened?"

"Are you all right, Harry?" Tonks inquired, waving her wand and causing the pieces of the broken vase to repair themselves. Harry's eyes flashed in her direction, but he did not bother to answer. It wasn't him who had to explain his actions to the Order. The tables had turned, and he was not going to take his finger off the matter before he had received a lengthy and detailed explanation.

Mad-Eye, however, seemed to have suddenly acquired a whole new set of priorities in his agenda. He set about casting Silencing and Imperturbable Charms on doors, windows, even the ceiling. When he was done, his eyes fixed themselves on Harry, who glared right back.

"Were you hurt?" Moody shot at him next, his magical eye fixed upon the young wizard's arm.

_That's got to be the stupidest question you've ever asked, Moody._

"I'm still here, as you can see." Harry's voice was cold. He raised an eyebrow, still waiting for the Order's rendition of the latest events.

Tonks, who seemed to be the only one unsurprised by Harry's attitude, spoke first. She earned herself a reproachful glare from Moody, who appeared to be rather loath to inform Harry of so much as the ice-cream vendor's latest doings, but she rolled her eyes at him and turned towards Harry.

"Wotcher," she said, taking a seat opposite Harry and looking intently at him. "Mrs. Figg went missing yesterday morning – Bill was supposed to meet her, but he found nobody at her house. He alerted everyone, of course, and we found her at noon or so – completely Confunded, babbling and the like. When we tried to return here, we couldn't get in."

"What about –?" Harry started, but Tonks carried on, in the same matter-of-fact tone she had been using so far.

"We couldn't fly in or apparate, either, and not even Dumbledore could break through the barrier. Then, Dumbledore found a way to get past the first round of wards, you know, muggle-repelling spells and such," she bit her lip, but carried on, frowning slightly, as if she were trying to make sense of something. "And then the barrier suddenly dissolved, we could just make out the sound of people apparating away, but the only thing that was off, was a burnt bush... everything looked just as usual, you know? There wasn't anything to tell us what they'd done, or what they were up to."

Harry didn't say a thing. His mind was trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Not even Dumbledore had been able to breach the barrier, the Death Eaters had quite effectively managed to isolate a 'closely monitored' area, and the Order had not found any evidence of the attack, except for the ostrich bush... His fingers were digging into the armrest of the sofa he now occupied, and a strange sensation of numbness overcame him.

"The Death Eaters left many muggle-containing charms behind, and we had to work our way through a quagmire of wards," Moody growled angrily. "But we found no evidence of them doing anything else."

"Then what took you so long?" asked Harry, having concluded that the Order must have finished clearing the area around the time he entered the house. "It was still early when the muggles–"

"We are not here to give _you_ a report of _our_ activities, Potter," Snape hissed venomously from his spot by the fireplace. "Suffice it to say that the headmaster decided to keep any Death Eaters from entering this area again."

Harry snorted without humour.

"_You're_ here, aren't you?" he said grimly, regarding the potions master with contempt. "And _you_ got through the wards, didn't you?"

"If your pitiful knowledge of protection spells does not allow for a better assessment, Potter, we are not here to provide you with a lecture of the different types of wards that may be used."

All the response he received was an indistinct sound from the back of Harry's throat. He couldn't believe his ears, and yet – it all fit, didn't it? Voldemort had played his cards correctly, whereas the Order had not. It was as simple as that, which made it all the more ironic; he had waited for help that wouldn't come, because they thought they were protecting him by strengthening the wards around Privet Drive. He chuckled humourlessly.

Here he was, thinking they would fix it all, and all the while they had never even found out what had happened! He'd thought they were fighting the Death Eaters or something, but they were having tea and biscuits at Mrs. Figg's instead!

But the best part was, Voldemort _knew_ that this would happen. The Order didn't find any remnants of magic, because the Death Eaters were using untraceable wands, and the blue ward kept them out, until he got across, it broke, and the Order were able to enter. Only there was nothing to see, because the ward allowed for repairing spells. If the Death Eaters had succeeded in getting him, the Order wouldn't have known a thing until now.

"Hello, Harry," said a quiet voice from the doorway.

Harry found himself engaged in the close examination of his sweatshirt and didn't look up. He clenched his jaw. Why was this lump rising in his throat all of a sudden? He had saved his anger for Dumbledore, he'd wanted to yell and rant at the old wizard about the injustice done to him, but now... he didn't know how to feel.

The Order_ hadn't known_, they hadn't even been _able to enter Little Whinging_ while Harry was fighting what had seemed to be the entire Inner Circle by himself. They had probably not found any evidence of harm near Privet Drive, and therefore thought the attack was on Mrs. Figg only...

_Stop that, Potter!_ The voice in his head was back. _You're excusing them for_ –

_For being human,_ he realised. He couldn't be mad at that, could he?

_They left you alone. _The voice insisted. _In spite of all the guarding and warding, they left you on your own. You were scared. You needed them, and they were not there. Face it; you're afraid they'll do it again._

"Alastor told me you saw the Death Eaters," Dumbledore said quietly, moving forward to sit opposite Harry, on an armchair he conjured, as usual, out of thin air.

"That's an understatement." Harry muttered without looking up. He did not want to look Dumbledore in the eyes. Part of him felt guilty now; he didn't know why. He hadn't done anything wrong, had he? Another part of him, however, was seething. The little voice in his head had begun a chant of '_they left you alone, they left you alone.._.' and he realised that it wasn't helping things, either.

"He was injured, Albus," Moody was saying, his tone urgent. The headmaster looked up sharply.

"You were—?"

"I'm all better now." said Harry abruptly, finally looking up at Dumbledore. He registered McGonagall standing close by the headmaster, her lips pursed and her eyes wide. The headmaster's face was ashen, his eyes showing concern.

Harry noted that he was thoroughly unimpressed by the reaction.

"How...?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Harry answered the question before it was asked. Had he really meant for it to come out so aggressively?

Dumbledore heaved a sigh, but remained otherwise silent, his eyes closed in defeat.

"Potter – what happened?" McGonagall asked instead, her voice curt – and shaky.

"Potter..." Mad-Eye's tone was admonishing. Harry ignored him, having been staring at Dumbledore, who as yet gave no sign of moving, let alone opening his eyes. If Harry hadn't known better, he'd have thought the headmaster had fallen asleep.

"Potter!"

"What?"

"Answer the blasted question!" Snape looked furious.

"What happened to you, Potter?" McGonagall repeated. "Why didn't—?"

"I tell you?" Harry's tone was angry. "Does it help if I say I meant to?"

"What are you talking about?"

Harry fished the crumpled-up letter Dumbledore had sent him the previous day out of his vast jeans pocket and tossed it on the coffee table. Dumbledore buried his head in his hands. They were shaking.

"Come now Potter, you surely could have gotten a message across," Snape sneered after taking a glance at the contents of the letter. "What with your _extraordinary_ talents –"

The anger, bitterness and betrayal came back full force. Harry glared at Snape. The git was making it sound as if it had been his fault, for Merlin's sake!

"You had Hedwig!" he shouted furiously. "How was I supposed to tell you anything, eh? Besides, _the_ _letter said you knew_!" He directed the last part to Dumbledore, who looked at him, a strangely pleading look in his eyes.

"Harry... How close did they get?"

"Does it _matter_?" Harry spat furiously. Dumbledore was doing it again, dammit! Just like that night Sirius died – he was being weak, and Harry wasn't at all keen on being empathic at the moment. "I thought you knew. Says so right there." He pointed at the letter.

"Potter, that's enough." McGonagall said tersely, her lips pursed.

"Damn right it is. It's bloody well enough." Harry answered icily.

"We need to know what happened." McGonagall insisted, her patience clearly waning – her lips were almost invisible, and the way her eyes flashed at him was indication enough.

"So do I!" Harry shot back, equally angry, banging his fist on the armrest of the sofa, not caring if his arm stung.

"We thought you were in here all the time—" Tonks said hastily.

"We thought you had seen something, but—" Mad-Eye added.

"Believe me, _I did_." Harry closed his eyes. A feeling of coldness was slowly spreading in him, grim realisation dawning at the sight of the confused and bewildered expressions around him: He could not rely on the Order. He could not rely on Dumbledore, because not even the headmaster knew what to do.

However good their intentions were, they were not infallible. They were not going to make anything all right again. They were every bit as lost as he was, reacting to the situations as they presented themselves, just as he did. His stomach clenched, his anger beginning to turn into something else, a feeling of disappointment mingled with confusion and _wrongness_; the same feeling of bereavement children have when they find out that Santa Clause is not real.

Suddenly, he wished they would all leave. He needed to make sense of all he had learned so far, try to understand what had happened, and it was lots easier to do that with _only_ the snarky little voice in his head for company.

"We _are_ concerned about you, Harry." Dumbledore said quietly.

"Of _course_ you are, Professor." Harry sarcastically conceded.

"So you've decided to play victim again, have you?" Snape sneered at him, taking a step forward.

"Severus—" Dumbledore's tone was admonishing. This only seemed to help Snape get into swing.

"Come now Albus, don't you see what he's doing?" he said almost gleefully, as if he'd found the answer to a difficult problem and gesturing at Harry, who felt like he would bubble over at any minute.

"Ok, I've had it. I'm out of here." Harry stood up abruptly, quite effectively interrupting a very promising rant on Snape's part. He did _not_ need to hear this.

"Potter,_ what do you think you're doing_?" Mad-Eye barked at him.

"I'm going to take a shower," said Harry coldly. "Since I can't leave because this is supposed to be the only place I'm safe, and since I don't want to stay here and listen to him – he jabbed his thumb in Snape's direction – making up all sorts of stuff about how much of an idiot I am, I'm going to take a shower. With some luck, you'll have left by the time I'm done."

That said, Harry turned his back on the bewildered Order members and left for the stairs.

"Harry Potter, get back here immediately!" a very commanding voice boomed. Harry turned around mechanically and returned to the living room.

"Yes, professor?" he asked curtly from the doorway.

Dumbledore was indeed frightening when he got angry, he realised while regarding the headmaster. Too bad the effect he had on Harry had worn off, even despite the fact that the anger had never before been directed at him.

"You shall sit down and tell us what happened, Harry," the headmaster said in a measured tone that held a warning nonetheless. Harry had been too long around the Dursleys to miss the subtle "or else" that was present in this phrase, but he found it rather out of place in Dumbledore's tone. The stance was all wrong as well, he realised. Towering over people was such a... _primitive_ way of commanding someone, and the furious glare did not help any more than the cold breeze that suddenly blew in Harry's face.

The most staggering discovery though, was finding himself thoroughly unfazed by this display. Dumbledore could have yelled, looked disappointed, or even thrown somersaults for all he cared – and it was this realisation that puzzled Harry the most.

"Sit down, Harry." Dumbledore gestured to the armchair closest to the doorway, which faced the rest of the room. Harry regarded the headmaster coldly for a moment, before he gave them a grim chuckle and flopped down on the appointed seat with a shrug and a roll of his eyes. He couldn't bring himself to so much as summon a sense of dread, although even McGonagall seemed to be cowering a little.

Once Harry had sat, Dumbledore took a deep, steadying breath and waved his wand around a few times.

Out of thin air appeared several silver trays laden with sandwiches, cakes, flagons of pumpkin juice and butterbeer, a steaming teapot, and a bottle filled with a yellowish liquid Harry strongly suspected was Firewhiskey. One of Aunt Petunia's coffee tables scuttled closer to receive the trays, reminding Harry of a dog. He looked away from the food, to find Mad-Eye, Tonks, and McGonagall sitting before him on the sofa, flanked by Dumbledore and Snape on armchairs, the coffee table between them like a restraining wall. He was forcibly reminded of his hearing before the Wizengamot the previous year, except that back then it had been more of a trial than an actual hearing.

_Same difference_, the voice in his head supplied promptly, as he regarded the grave expressions of the Order members before him.

Dumbledore had apparently calmed down a little. He certainly seemed to have shrunk a good five inches and looked less forbidding. Not that it mattered much anymore.

"Have you had lunch today, Harry?" the headmaster asked in a tone much more reminiscent of his usual calm and collected self.

Slowly, Harry shook his head, but made no movement towards the platter. He wasn't remotely hungry, so what was the point in humouring the headmaster? Food was a distraction Dumbledore often used to make people feel at ease, and Harry refused to be lulled into a false sense of security.

The silence was so heavy and the air so thick that Harry idly wondered whether he could cut it with a pair of scissors, while he watched the grownups stare – and glare, depending on the case – at him as if he had done something wrong. They could glare and rant all they wanted, he couldn't care less. Harry picked at the scar on his arm. Were they trying to be intimidating? He guessed they were. Except for Tonks, he amended fairly. _She_ looked like she was having a hard time containing a laugh. She winked conspiratorially at him, and it was all he could do to keep himself from winking back. He felt much lighter all of a sudden.

_This is stupid. _What did he care if they stared each other down for the remainder of the evening? He had nowhere else to go, after all...

"Oh, for goodness sakes!" Finally, McGonagall broke the silence. She gave an exasperated sigh and waved her own wand in a long-practiced movement, causing platters, goblets and cups to fill themselves up with food and drink. A plate laden with sandwiches found its way to Harry's lap, while the juice, the tea, coffee and whatnot danced around the room, until everyone had a drink, whether they wanted it or not.

Dumbledore gave her a little smile and sipped his tea. Snape scowled, reluctantly taking a gulp of coffee after having fruitlessly tried to refuse the cup for a while, and both Mad-Eye and Tonks set theirs on the table, looking at Dumbledore expectantly.

"Minerva, how do you manage to prepare it just how I like it every time?" the wizened wizard asked, setting his cup down and steepling his long fingers under his nose. "Now that we are all equipped..." he added pleasantly, turning his attention to Harry once more and fixing him with an intense look, "Voldemort is trying to reach you here, Harry."

Harry arched an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed. _Tell me something I don't know, Dumbledore._

"We believe he will try to lure you out of the house in order to do so, hence the importance that you remain inside at all times. What we know is that the Death Eaters have found a way to breach the wards and warning systems we have set up for your safety." Dumbledore paused, clearly waiting for Harry's reaction. When none came, he added, "We know that the Death Eaters have been attempting to neutralise the anti-apparition wards in the area, but we are working on reinforcing them as we speak."

_Really? That's the latest news?_ The voice in Harry's head scoffed.

"Why don't you tell us what happened, Harry?"

Harry mutely regarded his headmaster, a wary, guarded expression on his face only Snape was familiar with. He knew he had to share what he knew, why was he feeling so tempted to simply storm out of the room, like Dudley often did whenever Uncle Vernon wanted to discuss his marks?

McGonagall had finally had enough of the matter.

"For goodness sakes, Potter!" she exclaimed in frustration, interrupting Harry's confused soul-searching. "Eat something and tell us what happened to you already!" Harry thought he saw a flash of something in her eyes – fear, perhaps? Concern? He swallowed, in an attempt to get rid of the lump that had firmly lodged itself in his throat. It didn't budge. How could he speak like this?

"There's not much to tell, really," he muttered hoarsely, surprised at the calm and even tone his voice had acquired. To judge by the Order's reactions, he wasn't the only one taken aback. "Mrs. Figg told my uncle she needed me to run an errand or other yesterday, at two in the afternoon—"

"Why didn't you notify the Order immediately?" Snape shot at him. Harry glared at the Potions Master, but made himself continue, realising that up to now, he had not really given the whole story any further thought.

"Hedwig was away hunting," he replied coldly. "Besides, isn't Mrs. Figg part of the Order?" Snape opened his mouth, to say something unflattering no doubt, but Harry carried on. "So I went to her house, only when I arrived at the corner of her house something didn't feel right—"

"That's where the burnt tree is, isn't it?" Tonks interrupted.

"_Yes_. And then I saw her talking to the wall—"

"To the wall." Snape echoed flatly. Harry graced him with a glare. So this was how it was going to be.

"So _not_ to the bloody wall then, Sn—" Harry snapped angrily. His attempts at self-control were rapidly waning.

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry," Dumbledore reminded him with a frown.

"Whatever you say, Professor. So she _wasn't_ talking to the blasted wall, but it looked like it anyway, all right?" Harry plunged on before Snape could interrupt him again. "There was someone in an invisibility cloak there, and I—"

"You just had to go and stick your nose where it was least wanted, didn't you Potter?"

"Would you like to tell it for me instead?" Harry asked Snape heatedly. Snape didn't answer, but chose to half sneer at him; McGonagall looked like she was about to smile, and Tonks and Mad-Eye exchanged amused glances. Dumbledore gave Harry a warning look, which he chose to ignore. "As I was saying," he continued forcefully, "I was about to turn the corner to Wisteria Walk, and I saw Mrs. Figg talking to someone in an invisibility cloak. Somehow, it still didn't feel right, so I hid behind a bush that looked like an ostrich or such—"

"Instead of turning around and leaving." Snape interrupted yet again, the disdainful sneer pasted on his face as if someone had etched it there. "Can't go one week without playing the hero, can you?" he added, earning himself an admonishing hand gesture from Dumbledore and matching glares from both Harry and McGonagall.

"I _couldn't_ go anywhere else," Harry growled furiously. "She was two bloody yards away!" At this, Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, and Harry took the chance to move on, "And she was talking to Malfoy under an invisibility cloak."

"Lucius Malfoy?" Snape asked sharply. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he answered grimly, "Mrs. Figg was actually Goyle with Polyjuice Potion—"

"How can you be sure?" This time, McGonagall interrupted him sharply, leaning forward as if she could look through her student.

"You keep your own voice with the Polyjuice Potion," Harry replied offhandedly, trying to keep focused on the story and make sense of it at the same time. The details had been rather hazy since he returned, and even now, he was piecing together bits of images that floated before his mind's eye. "Goyle was complaining to Malfoy that the potion was wearing off and I was late, and then Mr. Tibbles—"

"Who?" asked Snape and McGonagall in unison.

"_Mrs. Figg's cat_," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "He showed up behind me when I was hiding, and he's usually really cuddly with Mrs. Figg, but he was standing so defensively, you know, with the back arched and such, so I was sure it wasn't her—"

"You have a penchant for stating the obvious, Potter," Snape commented yet again. Mad-Eye opened his mouth to speak, but Harry beat him to it.

"Yeah? Well I'd like to see _you_ try to make sure the Order members talking amongst them are indeed Order members or Death Eaters standing a couple of feet away." he muttered grimly, heaving a sigh and rubbing his neck. He closed his eyes briefly. He felt tired all of a sudden.

"What happened next, Potter?" McGonagall prodded, her tone positively gentle for her usual standards.

Harry shrugged yet again.

"I didn't know how to get away – I was between the bush and the wall, and they would have heard me if I tried to just make a break for it, but then Mr. Tibbles attacked Goyle – er, Mrs. Figg, and Malfoy was trying to hex him – the cat, I mean – but he kept hitting Goyle instead," at this point Harry actually gave a laugh, causing McGonagall to jump. "There was enough of a racket about the place, and I could actually try and return to the Dursl—here." Harry paused, but there was no comment from anyone this time. "So I got out from behind the bush and turned into Magnolia Drive to get away from them... but Crabbe was right there, with another invisibility cloak – I walked right into him." He shook his head ruefully.

"They _caught_ you?" Tonks asked, wide-eyed.

Harry nodded and then shrugged. "I wasn't looking where I was going, either. I was looking at Malfoy and Goyle, and I was thinking Mr. Tibbles wouldn't make it," he admitted, straining to remember what had happened next.

Snape gave a low laugh that resembled that of Dr. Frankenstein in a movie Harry had watched a long time ago from under his invisibility cloak.

"The Gryffindor Golden Boy running away? I would like to have seen that," he said nastily. Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

"I was surprised to have missed you there, _Professor_." Harry said evenly, astounded at how easy he found it to keep himself in check. It was worth it, too: Snape's face contorted into an angry puce.

"The Dark Lord has other priorities than spending his every waking moment bent on getting you, Potter. Don't think so highly of yourself."

Harry almost smirked. _Bull's eye._

"Jolly good, then," he muttered indifferently, but inwardly he knew by Snape's indignant tone that he'd scored a point. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tonks fight back a smile and shake her head.

"Potter?"

"Yes, Professor McGonagall?"

"Do carry on."

"Er... Where was I? Oh, yes – Crabbe grabbed hold of me, of course, and he started yelling at Malfoy that he had me – I tried to get away, but he had me around the waist. Malfoy was still busy with Mr. Tibbles anyway, and then Crabbe let go of me... I guess it was because Mr. Tibbles attacked him next," he amended at the last moment, determined to keep his wandless ability from the Order as long as he could contrive. He didn't see the calculating looks Snape was sending his way, though.

"Malfoy's Reductor Curse hit Goyle, and I tried to get away, but Malfoy got me with a Cutting Hex or something, and I hid behind a car..." Harry furrowed his brow. Things got more confusing from this point on, and he didn't want to give out too much, difficult as it was. The stricken looks that were being sent his way weren't really helping things, either.

"I guess that's when Malfoy caught up with me," he went on, "He and Crabbe took turns hitting me with the Cruciatus – he ignored the sharp intakes of breath around him – but then I got away and went around the corner. I found an invisibility cloak and Mr. Tibbles, and they passed me, I guess. I can't remember too well."

"You can't _remember_?" Snape arched a disbelieving eyebrow.

"It was difficult at the time." Harry's tone was flat, his eyes glinting furiously at the Potions Master nonetheless. "There was a lot of blood and I still couldn't breathe, and then loads of Death Eaters started apparating all over the place. And then... Oh, yes – Bellatrix Lestrange was yelling at Malfoy, something about him not waiting, and how he had thrown a week's worth of preparations down the drain and how stupid could he get." He chuckled again. "It looked rather funny, come to think of it..."

"Preparations?" Mad-Eye growled urgently. Harry nodded.

"Yeah, you know, the muggle-containing spells, the blue wall. Lestrange went bloody ballistic. Anyway, I tried to get to Privet Drive around the play park and Daffodil Drive. It took a while, and the Death Eaters were all over the street by the time I got there, so I tried to return through the back gardens, but they tracked me down."

"How?" Mad-Eye wanted to know.

"That weird blue barrier told them where I was, and then they just followed my tracks."

McGonagall closed her eyes wearily, and the rest exchanged meaningful looks.

"The barrier that didn't let us through was blue, wasn't it, Mad-Eye?" Tonks asked Moody, who nodded. Snape gritted his teeth – Harry could hear him from his seat.

"How—" McGonagall's voice broke. She coughed, tried again. "How did you escape, Potter?"

"Threw the invisibility cloak away and crossed the barrier," Harry replied, not stopping to ponder why it came out so simply, when in fact it had been one of the most terrifying and excruciating experiences he'd ever had. "When I jumped the fence all spells broke and the Death Eaters left." He regarded the Order members darkly. The whole business with the wands and his nightly excursion to Wisteria Walk remained unmentioned.

"When I returned I got this – he gestured at the piece of parchment now littering the floor – and I've been waiting for you since." The last part was directed at Dumbledore, who had remained silent throughout the last part of Harry's account. When the headmaster continued to mutely regard him through his half-moon spectacles, he added, "That's about it, are you satisfied?"

"Great Merlin..." McGonagall whispered, her eyes wide.

"We didn't know..." Dumbledore said quietly.

"So Tonks tells me," Harry replied icily, returning his untouched plate to the table, which shuffled closer to receive it.

"We thought you had seen the Death Eaters, but this..." Dumbledore's eyes were full of regret. He looked at a loss as to what to do next. "The barrier must have been set to avoid detection—"

"Arabella remembered nothing," Mad-Eye agreed. "And we found no evidence of any activity, other than her house."

"We must improve the wards around the house," Tonks threw in. "They tell us if Harry's in here or not, but they don't show if he's all right."

"And we need to find out why there was no trace of any sort of struggle anywhere," Mad-Eye growled.

"Repairing charms, perhaps?" Tonks was apparently thinking along the same lines as Harry had earlier.

"Probably. But the bush..."

"But why didn't our detectors work?" Mad-Eye was seething. "We tested them from Arabella's last night after we set up the anti-apparition wards, and they were working fine."

Snape shook his head. "The Dark Lord has told me nothing," he muttered angrily. "He's furious, of course—"

"I think Potter should be taken to St. Mungo's," said McGonagall, shooting Harry an appraising look.

"I'm _fine_." Harry answered, trying to make himself heard over the babble that had broken out around him.

"We shall see," came the dry remark from his Head of House. Harry rolled his eyes and slumped back against his armchair in defeat. The Order members had come closer and were now discussing his account, as if he were not present. He was forcefully reminded of the Dursleys.

Casting about for something to do, he took his defence book and started reading the entry for a Disorientation Charm. It wasn't like he could just leave them to it and return to his bedroom after all, and he could just as well do something useful while the Order debated the recent events and decided upon new "measures". The moving diagrams showing the appropriate wand movements soon absorbed his attention, and the voices of the Order became indistinct murmurs.

"Harry?" Dumbledore's voice was quiet, but it was enough to startle Harry from his reading.

"Yes." He didn't look up. Whatever the Order had decided, he would have to take; he was aware of the dangers that lay beyond the Dursleys', of course. He knew he wasn't ready to face down the Death Eaters again. He wouldn't last for five minutes out there on his own; he wasn't entirely stupid...

"Put that away for a moment, please."

Harry reluctantly closed the book and placed it on the coffee table, to find the Order members assembled there silent and regarding him strangely.

"Have you had any more dreams about Voldemort, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

_Well he does sort of live in my head, doesn't he!_

Harry shrugged.

"Just these images when Voldemort punished the Death Eaters. He mentioned that the Death Eaters were using Untraceable wands..." Harry trailed off. Mad-Eye and McGonagall were exchanging looks, as if something had been confirmed. Snape gave a derisive harrumph, as if he had been expecting this answer all along.

_So they know all about the wands. Good. _This way, he would not have to mention the fact that he currently possessed three of these weapons. He would have to explain a lot if he did, and part of him simply didn't want to hand them in. That same part, incidentally, was stubbornly providing reasons for Harry not to listen to the Order and keep some aces up his sleeve, as it were. This part of him did not trust them anymore.

It was slowly gaining ground.

"Did Voldemort say or do anything else?" Dumbledore inquired sharply, holding up a placating hand to shut Snape up before he even opened his mouth.

"I'm not too sure," Harry said through clenched teeth. "He might have, I can't remember too well. There was something about getting someone who knows too much, and some other thing about getting more cores, for the wands, I suppose..."

"Do you ever pay attention to anything, Potter?" Snape hissed venomously.

"What do you want me to say, then?" Harry snapped at the Potions Master, who merely contented himself with sending a sneer his way but didn't otherwise answer.

"I understand how you must feel about this whole situation," Dumbledore said in the same low tone he had been using up to now. "Yet I must stress once again that all we do is in your best interests."

"Of course," said Harry tonelessly. "Of course it is."

"Privet Drive is your home, and you are well aware of the reasons for you to stay here as well as every member of the Order. However, seeing as the Death Eaters have found a manner to penetrate the area, and in spite of the additional warding we have set up, you shall from now on refrain from leaving the house, unless escorted by your aunt, your cousin, or members of the Order. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Harry muttered, inwardly groaning. Now he'd have to spend _all_ his time in the house – he would rather have another week of detentions with Umbridge than ask Aunt Petunia or Big D to 'escort' him as far as the nearest corner.

"There is something else, Harry," the headmaster went on, well aware of Harry's pained expression. "Communications are being intercepted, and have become very dangerous. Therefore, you are not to send any owls, and your subscription to the _Daily Prophet_ has been cancelled."

"I know," Harry stated neutrally, but his expression showed quite plainly that he was less than happy with these arrangements. "_Snape_ already told me."

"Your copy of the _Daily Prophet_, as well as your mail, shall be delivered by the Order members who will come to visit you every day. I am afraid this is a necessary measure."

"Right." Harry listlessly picked at his scar again. Already his summer, which had previously been less than appealing, had turned for the worse. What else could go wrong?

"Once you return to Hogwarts, you shall resume your Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape."

"The hell I will." he blurted out at once, mentally cursing Murphy into a thousand pieces.

"You still need to master the skills," Dumbledore said blandly. "It is all for—"

"My safety. You've said so already." Harry said grimly. He gave a hollow laugh, and added, "It's all pure dragon dung, if you ask me."

"Mister Potter! You are to show due respect to the headmaster!" McGonagall snapped, scandalised.

"All right, then – Headmaster, _sir_, this is absolute bollocks."

* * *

Harry snapped his book shut, gathering up his letters and the Weasleys' parcels. He was seething – the Order had left some time before, but he could not find any comfort in the thought. They would come again the next day after all, despite his protests on the matter. What on earth Dumbledore wanted to achieve by sending wizards and witches to the Dursley household on a daily basis, Harry didn't know.

The prospect of renewed Occlumency lessons with Snape had been the last straw, really. What did Dumbledore expect? Harry opened the door to his bedroom with a wave of his wand and dumped everything on top of that morning's _Daily Prophet_, which he took before he returned to the impeccable living room and flopped down on the sofa in frustration.

He understood the need to intercept his mail and to cancel his subscription to the newspaper; one experience with a concealed portkey had been enough – but that did not mean he was content with the arrangements. The prospective daily visits from the Order were an exaggeration in Harry's humble opinion, and though they would have been welcomed warmly in previous years, this was not the case anymore. Not to mention how he felt towards Occlumency with the one wizard who probably competed with Voldemort for the top of Harry's 'most hated' list. He scowled at the far wall of the living room, the feeling of being trapped increasing at every passing second. He was well aware of his situation, which was why he had forced himself to comply with the Headmaster's orders; but that didn't mean he had to agree with him.

It was all so bloody confusing! Harry threw his head back and rubbed his prickling scar. He just wanted to go to bed, but he had to wait for the Dursleys to return – he was, after all, supposed to be locked out of his room. Unfolding the _Daily Prophet_ and rubbing his stinging eyes, he read it cover to cover this time.

The news were grim. Now that the Wizarding World had officially accepted Voldemort's return, some sort of mass hysteria had taken hold of wizards and witches across the country. Adverts to recruit new Aurors and Hit Wizards to the Ministry ranks had been placed in almost every page, and there was a listing of guarded Apparition points in several large towns and villages. A curfew had been installed in all public places as well, and the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had created a new division, devoted exclusively to the guarding of the Floo network.

Harry reached out for a sandwich off the platter McGonagall had left him for dinner, suddenly hungry, and read a lengthy article that confirmed the loss of Azkaban to the Dementors. There were rumours of a new prison being built, but according to the article, Fudge was reluctant to so much as breathe a word regarding its location. _Typical_, Harry thought grimly while looking at the picture of a very uncomfortable Fudge being pelted with questions from an angry crowd.

There was an entire section dedicated to Death Eater and Dementor sightings in the country. Apparently, they had preferred to show themselves in small, obscure villages rather than Hogsmeade or London. Rookwood had, by all looks of it, been seen at two different locations at the same time.

The central pages had been devoted to a section on basic self-defence and precautory safety measures, which covered Dementors, What-To-Do-In-Case-Of-An-Attack, and Shield Charms. He allowed himself a little satisfaction – the DA knew all of this already.

Last year, the _Prophet_ had claimed that he was delusional and one step from being locked up in St. Mungo's next to the Longbottoms, but now they seemed to have done a 180-degree spin. Apparently, there was no balance point with journalists. You were black or white; there was no room for shades of grey in the information business. Harry saw his own name several times, boasting his Patronus-casting abilities, or otherwise proclaiming him as a fearless hero who brought hope to the Wizarding World.

Harry drained his butterbeer and glared at the paper. By all looks of it, and in his humble opinion as a layman on the matter, wizarding society was panicking already. They were really expecting too much. How was he supposed to cope with this? How desperate could the wizarding society get that they were pinning all their hopes on a schoolboy who didn't even know if he'd passed his OWLs yet?

The thought of the examinations that would mark his career tied another knot into his stomach. Yet... what did it matter if he had failed each and every one of them? His fate had been sealed since before he was born, and it would lead, inexorably, to fighting Voldemort. He didn't think that his knowledge of Astronomy or Potions would help him overmuch when it happened, and any amount of OWLs would be useless as a chocolate teapot.

He heaved a sigh. It was unfair. He didn't want to be set up as a hero, or pitted against the most evil wizard alone, but it seemed unavoidable. He'd been born to do just that, hadn't he? Had his parents known? Probably. Had Sirius known? And the Longbottoms? Had they been moved around as pawns by Dumbledore, just like himself?

"There's no use in wondering anymore, is there?" he mused aloud, helping himself to the last sandwich and sending his empty bottle of butterbeer flying across the room and into the trash bin in the corner, placed there for Dudley's convenience.

He yawned, too tired to think. In fact, he was so sleepy that he didn't hear the Dursleys' car stop in the driveway, nor did he notice their arrival until Uncle Vernon's booming voice was heard in the hall, startling him to the waking world.

"Boy, did they come?" he called, entering the kitchen with Dudley and Aunt Petunia in tow. A moment later, he added, "At least the house is still standing – Boy! Trot your behind over here!" Despite his words, he sounded strangely cheerful.

Harry groaned, but made himself stand up and approach the Dursleys, where he almost stumbled into the reason for Uncle Vernon's cheerfulness; it occupied half the entrance hall. A huge gilded trophy almost as tall as Harry stood there, complete with three levels and an equally gilded figure of a man in overlarge underwear and balloon-like gloves who seemed to be punching an invisible enemy.

"Junior Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the North-East," Uncle Vernon boomed upon seeing Harry staring stupidly at the trophy. There was a note of pride in his voice, ever-present whenever he spoke of his whale of a son. Diddydinkdums was already in the kitchen, shovelling food as if his life depended on it.

"Did they come, then?" Uncle Vernon inquired, peering at Harry, who nodded. "Did you tell them what I told you to?"

Harry couldn't bring himself to break the news of daily Order visits to his expectant relatives. He nodded again, albeit reluctantly. They'd do their nut the next day, that was certain.

"Excellent!" Vernon laughed, tossing Harry the key to his bedroom. "Go to bed, then. Tomorrow you'll do the garden—"

"But – I can't leave the house—" Harry began to protest, but Aunt Petunia, who had just been serving her adored Diddy enough sausages to feed the entire Weasley clan after Quidditch practice, cut him off.

"You'll do the back garden, then. It's still _part of the house_, isn't it?" she snapped, eyeing her nephew with an air of superiority.

"I s'pose..." Harry muttered, shrugging. "G'night."

* * *

"Will you look at this, Hedwig!" Harry exclaimed moments later, showing her a photograph of Ron and Ginny racing each other on broomsticks, a large black dragon flapping its huge leathery wings in the far background. "That's the Hungarian Horntail from the Triwizard Tournament, remember?" He pointed unnecessarily at the dragon, giving the snowy owl a small smile. She tilted her head and hooted at the picture, where the Hungarian Horntail was blowing a stream of fire out of her mouth. On Harry's bedside table, the miniature version of the dragon he had kept did the same. Hedwig fluttered away from it, annoyed. Harry chuckled softly.

His intentions of going to bed and sleeping until the beginning of the school year had gone down the drain the very instant he had begun to clear his bed from the letters Tonks had delivered earlier. Ron and Ginny had sent him pictures of their holiday in Romania, where they were spending the summer helping Charlie with the dragons and playing Quidditch; Hermione was in Australia with her parents, and she too, seemed to be having a good time there, to judge by the four-foot long letter she had sent him.

It was refreshing to read of his friends again, although he didn't fail to notice that they kept their letters unusually cheerful, and avoided any mention of the Department of Mysteries, Voldemort's doings, the war, the Order, in short, anything that was bleak or sad. Even Hermione, who usually confronted uncomfortable topics head on, skirted around the less merry topics. Harry didn't blame them. On the contrary, he found that the letters distracted him, for a few moments, from the harshness of reality – and he welcomed it.

There were a few more letters, from Hagrid, Neville, and (inexplicably) Luna, but he forewent opening them in favour of the square parcel Fred and George had sent him. The package was not very large, about the size of a medium-sized bag of crisps, and when he tentatively shook it there was no tell-tale rattle. He knew that it would be more sensible to wait until the next day to open it, in case it contained some active Weasley Wizard Whiz-Bangs, but curiosity won out. Undoing the string, Harry cautiously removed the parchment wrap and opened the lid of the box.

The contents were concealed from view by a folded piece of parchment, which Harry took gingerly in his hand, and upon seeing that his skin had neither acquired a different colour or grown new appendages, opened it.

**_(June 20, 1996_**) _ **July 5, 1996**_

_To our main investor,_

_In the knowledge that you are presently facing the prospect of a summer devoid of your usual dosage of laughs, and as a measure of prevention of withdrawal syndrome caused by our early retirement from scholarly life, we have herewith taken the liberty to present you with some of our deluxe prototype creations for your enjoyment, which shall hopefully put to good use before long. Additionally, we have also included the Classic Wheezes, for old times' sake._

_Most of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes now in your possession are recent creations, not yet to be found in the market, and were developed with the crucial aid of a Professional Purveyor of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers, who has gamely shared his vast knowledge and nearly limitless capabilities with us, turning the products, as you will no doubt find out, into veritable masterpieces of Mischief-Making Art. _

_We are convinced that every item has an ample range of uses, and we are certain that a resourceful wizard as yourself shall benefit of each and every one of them. We trust you shall be immensely satisfied with the results._

_Yours in mischief,_

_**Fred and George Weasley, **_

_Weasley Wizard Wheezes, 93 Diagon Alley, London._

Despite himself, Harry felt a genuine grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he peered past the letter and into the box, which had been magically expanded to hold much more than he suspected at first, and crammed fully with pranks.

Apart from known items (Skiving Snackboxes, Headless Hats, Canary Creams, Fake Wands, a Deflagration Deluxe Whiz-Bang set and even a Portable Swamp), it contained a Pecking Padlock, which responded only to the owner's touch and ate any key that was inserted; a Shopping Spree Satchel that looked like a small leather pouch but could hold roughly the same things as a large backpack; the new model of Extendable Ears, which you could order to snake under doors; a set of Glowing Glue Gobstones, which squirted various types of indelible, glow-in-the-dark goops when prodded, amongst other things.

There was a small case containing tiny vials of Instant Marauding Potions, that turned you into the desired animal form for a period of time, such as a ferret (the Silver Bouncing Special), a grim (Siriusly Scary Snuffles – In Memoriam), a wolf (Howling Hysteria), or a stag (Pronged Wonder). Next to the case, Harry found what looked like dark red silken fabric, but turned out to be a miniaturized tent (for the adventurous types), that bore the words "_Early Birthday Present -- Snuffles_" scribbled on a tag in an unmistakable handwriting.

He looked long at it, before he set it aside to unpack the rest of the contents of the box, an ominous lump rising in his throat. Unearthing the assortment of glowing skin dyes, invisible string and Power Powder (a stronger version of Itching Powder that moved away whenever the person began to scratch himself), and several others, Harry saw that the bottom of the box was occupied entirely by a leather-bound booklet, with the title "Pranking – Plans and Performance, From the Heads of Fred and George Weasley for the Head of Harry Potter". Removing it with a snort, he saw a black case that resembled his broomstick polishing kit quite closely, only it was smaller.

"Wow," he whispered, his eyes taking in the expensive-looking dragonhide and the gold lettering bearing the words "For the Exclusive Use of Harry James Potter". The twins had really outdone themselves this time, he thought, noiselessly opening the case to see its contents, and gasping as the lettering faded.

Inside, he found another piece of parchment, rather thicker than the previous one, which read:

**_June 18, 1996_**

_To Mr. Harry James Potter_

_We are pleased to inform you that you are now the proud owner of the Getaway Gags and the Emergency Escape Kit, a unique item collection that sprung from the joint genius of our secret associate and ourselves, in order to aid you in your fight against Umbridge the Human Horned Toad and in training the DA to reach higher goals. _

_In this case, you may store your trusty Firebolt –once it is returned to your rightful possession, of course – as well as a certain cloak and map, amongst a number of other things you wish to carry with you and maintain concealed from prying eyes._

_The case shall respond only to your touch, and shall remain invisible to everyone else, even a certain Ex-Auror with a reputation of a peeping tom! _

_Yours in mischief,_

_**Fred and George Weasley,**_

_Weasley Wizard Wheezes, 93 Diagon Alley, London_

_P.S. Some of your friends have received similar EEKs, courtesy of our secret associate and prototype sponsor. Said secret associate expressed his wish to keep the existence of these highly-prized items from the Order, in case you wish to make good use of them at Hogwarts or elsewhere in the future._

Harry had a shrewd idea of who the 'secret associate' of the Weasley Twins might have been. He was deprived from further thoughts, however, when the piece of parchment flew out of his hands and burst into flame.

Giving a startled yelp, he backed off, somehow finding himself on the floor and staring at a white scroll floating before his eyes where the burning letter had previously been, a silver seal in the shape of a paw print reflecting the light from the flickering light bulb overhead.

Aghast, Harry reached timidly for the scroll, plucking it out of the air with trembling fingers. Any lingering doubts he might have had regarding the identity of the 'secret associate' of the twins disappeared along with his cheerfulness, leaving only a gaping, empty space behind, that slowly filled with cold sorrow.

His fingers ghosted longingly over the seal, tracing the contour of the symbol he had long come to associate with help and support. The seal melted away at his slightest touch, turning into glittery dust and seeping through his fingers, escaping his grasp like water... vanishing into nothingness. Harry swallowed.

With hesitancy born of guilt, regret, and grief, he made himself unroll the scroll and read it.

He could not make out any words at first, but saw only the fluid lines of the handwriting that had once belonged to his godfather, his throat closing over much like it had long ago in the Shrieking Shack, when he had found out who Sirius really was. Unlike that day so long ago, the feeling carried no hope with it, but drained what little was left. He gave himself a shake and focused his eyes on the words.

_Harry, _

_What do you think of it? The case and the Phoenix Scroll both, I mean. I must say that I'm rather proud of how our little project turned out, wrong as it may be to praise my own work. The twins did more than their share, of course – I am still banned from so much as approaching the front door to this accursed place, and without their help I would never have managed to overcome the boredom that permeates this old house._

_I strongly recommend you try the Animagus Potions. They'll transform you for about an hour into the animal of your choice – try the Scary Snuffles one. It's my personal favourite, you'll imagine. In fact, try all of them and wreak some good, old-fashioned havoc at the castle! I think, and the twins agree with me, that you deserve to play prankster more than anyone we know._

_Stick to the Weasleys, Harry. They're true friends – except maybe that perfect git Percy. I am inclined to believe that he was adopted, but don't let Molly find out I said that. Speaking of the head of the Weasley clan, she wasn't exactly pleased the twins left school early, to tell you the truth. Somehow she believes I had my paws mixed in the matter of their newly-established premises, and of course, she's right. She gave me one of the longest (and shrillest) ear-bashings ever about responsibility and not encouraging others – namely the twins and you lot – to do dangerous things. I can't understand her, really._

_Enough about me, though._

_You will notice that many of the things in the case are concealment and defence items, mostly for battle purposes. I know, as well as you do, that we're fighting a war, and if there's someone who has been marked as a target it is you. Since I can't so much as leave this place, the next best thing I can do is give you some means of protecting yourself, although the word at the moment is against overloading you with pressures, should you tear at the seams. I know better, even if they don't listen to me anymore. _

_Some of the Order are dead from the neck up where you are concerned, and they will likely be still arguing the toss about what to tell you by the time you graduate. Sometimes they make me believe they couldn't organise a piss in a brewery._

_As for your summer, Dumbledore insists you must spend it at the Dursleys' again, for safety reasons. Bleak as that may sound, I've decided to visit Arabella during your holidays. Don't worry about safety, I think the twins and I have found a way to avoid detection._

_There are many things we need to talk about, a lot of catching up to do. Also there is a bit of news I'll give you, if the old codger doesn't see sense and fails to tell you first. You have the right to know everything that's going on, but he doesn't want to understand. Don't blame Dumbledore, he's trying his best to keep you safe, Harry. He only needs to stop thinking of you as a child._

_Now I'm sounding like him, aren't I? Unfortunately, I cannot tell you more unless we're face to face again, and Merlin knows when that is going to happen._

_If ever you need to talk about anything at all, or even fancy some help with your Potions homework or getting into trouble or something, contact me through the Two-Way mirror, it's safer than using owls. And don't you dare give me a lecture on safety – If you ever need me, I'll be there._

_Best of British, and let me know how your OWLs went!_

_**Padfoot**_

_P.S. Congratulations on the interview in the Quibbler. You had everyone goggling like mad, we never thought of having you go public! I don't believe there was a better thing you lot could have done. Now there are many more people convinced that Voldemort is indeed back, and the Order has acquired several new members. Extend my congratulations to Hermione. She's the one behind the whole thing, I would think._

Harry slowly lowered the parchment, the familiar lump lodged so firmly in place that he felt he could not breathe properly. He felt as if an invisible hand had grabbed hold of his heart and was squeezing hard, etching a message simple, yet overpowering in its statement:

_He is gone and he's not coming back._

He barely read the postscript, fighting the sudden urge to blink furiously. Had it not been for his own stupidity, Sirius would have been staying at Mrs. Figg's. Life could have been so much better, and he had wasted his chance.

Sirius had given so much, just for Harry. He had done everything for him to be safe and happy, not because he was the Boy Who Lived, but because he was his family. Most of all, Sirius had had faith in him. He had believed in his godson, more than anyone else ever had.

Harry's eyes were full of tears that would never fall. Instead, his jaw set and his face hardened, suddenly defiant. Sirius was right. This was a war he had been born to fight, and he would do so.

He would prove Sirius right.

Whatever it took.

* * *

High above Little Whinging, somewhere in the sky, a star inexplicably shone brighter than ever, startling astronomers and stargazers worldwide. Standing in a forest clearing, a herd of Centaurs was unsurprised, but intrigued.

Not too far from them, on a grass-grown lawn, a lone centaur glanced upwards, his palomino body shimmering against the darkness of an ancient castle. He smiled, stamping his hooves on the soft grass.

"It has begun."

* * *

TBC. 


	8. Bonds of Blood

**Disclaimer: The Potter-centric universe isn't mine, of course. Nor are the characters, animals, furniture, weird food or even the sceneries that figure in it. It's all JK Rowling's creation, which I have merely borrowed to base this fic on. Since this is done for fun, I do not, nor do I believe I ever will, receive any sort of monetary compensation for my fan fiction writing. See? No need to sue poor penniless me!**

**What is mine: Uh... anything you do not recognise from elsewhere. Yep, that about sums it up quite nicely, doesn't it?**

**Dedication: **To my dear friend Japonica, of course! Happy birthday and welcome to the world of grownup-ness:glomps:

One last thing: I would like to remind you readers this is an Alternate Universe. Starting point is here. No, really.

* * *

**Chapter Eight – Bonds of Blood**

_BRRRRRIIINNNNGGG... BRRRRRIIINNNNGGG..._

The alarm clock on the bedside table broke the complete silence in the small bedroom at the crack of dawn. From under the cover of a tatty, ragged blanket a hand emerged, accompanied by slurred muttering directed at the disruption. Feeling its way towards the chiming appliance, it inched closer until it touched plastic, and unceremoniously lobbed it against the far wall, where the alarm clock ceased to exist with a satisfying _smash – crunch – clatter_.

The silence was restored, except for the – now much more appeased – muttering. It too, subsided after a few moments, ending its rant with a disgruntled yawn. The blanket moved after a while, and from under it the hand emerged once more, accompanied this time by its owner.

Harry blinked a few times, wondering briefly why his neck was so sore. He brought a hand to his face but met with paper. Peeling Sirius' last letter off his face, much like he had almost every morning since receiving it, he left it on the former place of residence of his clock and coaxed his limbs to move, all the while trying to ignore the guilt and remorse that welled up inside him. When this did not work, he reminded himself of the tasks ahead of him and concentrated on the spells he intended to practice that day instead.

This approach seemed to work better, but the guilt did not go away. In fact, it had been getting steadily worse as time wore on. One week had gone by, and no matter how busy he kept himself, the frustration of enclosure was steadily gaining ground, ever-present in the back of his mind, lurking at the edge of his conscious thoughts, waiting for a single moment of weakness to pounce on him like some rabid animal. Monster. Thing.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly, absently making a list of all the things he would give to get a full night's rest. So far, he had already offered the entire contents of his Gringotts vault, his books, and all his remaining possessions – except for his most prized ones – to some invisible deity. Somewhere along the way, he suspected he had offered the contents of his trunk twice – maybe that was why the said, as yet unnamed, deity had turned a deaf ear to his pleas.

Or perhaps he owned only rubbish.

Harry believed that maybe he wouldn't be so badly off if it weren't for the nightmares and dreams which woke him several times every night, screaming, sweating, or otherwise entangled in his blanket so badly he had already torn it in a few places.

He hardly considered himself an expert in anything, not even Quidditch, which was his passion, but he felt that at least in the subject of disturbing dreams, he was quite well-versed. He had even managed to sort them into groups.

The Harry Potter Classification of Dreams was simple: There were nightmares, and then there were _nightmares_.

The first, he believed, were the result of his muddled subconscious acting up – the repetitive dream of that pitch-black cell, where he battled his way around a wet, cold floor littered with pointy stones that dug into his skin, feeling his way across a slimy, sticky wall and calling desperately for Sirius, whose voice echoed off the seemingly endless hall, which left him feeling increasingly empty and sad every time; or the ones set in that graveyard, where Cedric was being killed time and again before his eyes. Or, in fact, a number of others, all of which included references to Dementors, flashes of green light, killer curtains, dead friends, and an ample range of equally disturbing imagery.

He had been surprised, really, when he realised how vast his inner catalogue of horror-inducing images was. If he were to choose filmmaking as a career, he'd make a fortune with scary flicks.

The second category was covered by truly hellish dreams, his _nightmares_, real events he partook in through impromptu visits to Voldemort's head.

And those dreams _hurt_.

It was torture to be in them, listening in to plots and plans Voldemort was making, seeing everything through his eyes, feeling the rush of hatred and pure evil wash through him while his scar burnt as if he were being branded by thousands of tiny irons at the same time. This torture became agony, in turn, when Voldemort – whom Harry now referred to as The Bastard – decided he needed to participate more actively in any random activity, or was otherwise busy torturing someone.

Harry had turned the casting of Silencing Charms before bed into a nightly habit, which he fit into his schedule after brushing his teeth and before turning the lights off for the night. Not that this made getting through the night any easier, but at least it kept awkward questions at bay, and _that_, little as it may be, was something.

What was all the more frustrating, was that he hardly remembered anything from these visions. They leaked away from his conscious memory almost as soon as he woke, screaming and shaking wildly, only to return in the form of an ominous déja-vu when he received his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ sometime during the following day. The message left by these dreams was infuriatingly simple: _You saw it happen, and yet you could do nothing._

Maddening.

Tonight, however, had been different: he had dreamed of horses, silvery grey in the flickering light; he dreamt of a fire and people screaming and running around in a frenzied panic – he simply couldn't relate this dream to any category he knew. The dull _thud-thud_ of horses' hooves on an earthy ground still resounded in his ears, their wide-eyed, fearful stare reflecting the flames, the whinnying and confused shouting hung in the air as if he had been there.

He could still smell the smoke. Almost.

Not that his waking moments were any better: there were Voldemort's mood-swings, accompanying him throughout the day, some times stronger than others, in perfect coordination with the pain in his scar. Harry had been unable to shake off the feeling of being a radio tuned to the dark wizard's feelings, which ranged from angry to hateful to morbidly happy, and every which way in between. Voldemort was incapable of love or caring. The mere idea of it was laughable.

So it was that, when he was awake, Harry's scar alternately prickled and itched and stung and burned, but never left him quite in peace, a constant reminder of his past, present, and future.

Giving himself a shake, Harry dressed and made his way to the bathroom, stopping briefly to wonder why on earth he bothered with washing at all. It was not like he could go anywhere, now was it?

Unlike the previous year, he was not plagued by lethargy, although he was sleeping less than he ever had before. What had begun as a way to distract himself from the gory images spinning around in his head whenever he woke had developed into a strange sort of hyperactivity. Or cabin fever, he didn't know for sure.

Whatever the case may be, Harry now spent the greater part of his waking moments practicing magic, or otherwise reading up on curses and hexes he could use. If the Order – and Dumbledore – chose to leave him to his own devices, he had decided, he'd do best in making his resources as vast as he possibly could: he had already mastered a whole new range of offensive hexes, none of which were easy, and all of which were just shy of deadly, if need be, and his Charms and Transfiguration work could now almost compete with Hermione's.

His wandless abilities had also grown somewhat, mostly in the move-things-around department, but he was rapidly improving. Harry had found this form of magic utterly draining, hence the current state of his bedroom.

If someone had told him years earlier that the day would come when he would be desperately longing to take out the garbage or pining to prune the bushes in the back garden of four, Privet Drive, he would have laughed in disbelief. Now, he'd jump at the chance to do so, if only to go outside for _one minute_. Literally. Sixty seconds. Was that too much to ask for?

It was.

Sixty seconds.

A mere dream, not to come true anytime soon.

The still unnamed deity controlling his life must have a sick sense of humour, he mused while he cast about for something, _anything_ to do. He gave a grim chuckle at the thought, surveying his sparkling, almost unnaturally clean bedroom. Maybe he should mess it up a bit, just to have something to entertain himself with?

He had cleaned his trunk out twice already, refilled Hedwig's water tray, answered all his letters, and even ordered – and corrected – his school notes; he'd read his Charms, Transfiguration, and Defence books as well: he was now torn between beginning to study Potions or tackling some of Dudley's untouched books, and if that wasn't an indication of desperate boredom, he didn't know what was.

How low he had fallen.

Harry Potter, studying Potions.

Out of his very own volition.

During his holidays.

Hermione would be proud.

It was too early to practice magic, wandless or otherwise: Today happened to be Saturday (July 20 according to yesterday's Daily Prophet), and it was Mad-Eye's turn on guard that morning. And Harry, although he personally couldn't care less what the Order thought of his daily activities, was not fool enough to risk being caught doing magic by the see-through-anything Ex-Auror.

This left him few possibilities, he realised. He had all but exhausted his options already: he had polished his cauldron, telescope, Firebolt, wands and scales the previous day, around the time Mad-Eye had arrived to watch him. And that had been just about the last thing he could do.

All there was left, was his Potions text.

Harry made his bed, slumped down on it, and buried his head in his hands. He had, at first, marvelled at the sheer amount of things he could get done on a random twenty-hour day, if he applied himself properly.

Blasted efficiency.

He had even gone as far as _asking_ Aunt Petunia for some chores to do, for sod's sake! To which she had flat-out refused, no doubt fearing retaliation from the Order – or more specifically, Dumbledore. The old headmaster had quite effectively managed to drop even lower in Harry's appreciation, and was now close to fighting Snape for the second position in the Most Hated Wizards list. It had taken the headmaster less than ten minutes, the very next day after the first Order visit.

Must be some kind of record, that.

Harry groaned at the memory. Dumbledore had taken care of the first Order visit back then, in the hopes to get Harry to soften up to him, no doubt. He had been accompanied by Madam Pomfrey, who immediately began fussing over Harry's sorry state and made the young wizard more than uncomfortable in the space of a few seconds. The fact that Harry had been found outside in the garden in the watchful company of a purring Mr. Tibbles had not really helped matters along. Instead of a trust-strengthening social visit, there had been a telling-off that grew to an all-out verbal battle over tea and biscuits in the space of a few minutes.

The headmaster had been angry at Harry for flouting his orders and leaving the house, whereas Harry had been furious because of the sudden appearance of a certain golden barrier around the house, about which he had not been informed, of course, and which he had found that morning when stepping outside to do the back garden. It had been placed there for his protection, all right, but that was beside the point in Harry's opinion.

Madam Pomfrey, in turn, had been angry at Harry because the scar on Harry's arm would not fade as it was too late to treat it, and how thick could Harry be that he sought out trouble in the unlikeliest places? To which the latter had replied with a string of rather unflattering comments.

Without loosing his temper once.

Harry believed that it was this fact that rattled the headmaster the most. Dumbledore had probably expected his student to make a repeat presentation of his redecoration skills.

Dumbledore had then taken up the understanding old codger approach, and tried to impress the importance of remaining indoors until further notice onto his pupil. In response, Harry had snapped something about Dumbledore doing the same thing to Sirius, and that the back garden was still part of the house, wasn't it – he would know, wouldn't he, since he'd witnessed the action of the blood magic firsthand. And, he had added, it wasn't his fault the entire Inner Circle of Death Eaters had his home address anyway.

The heated argument seemed to be only beginning – when the Dursleys returned from boasting Dudley's trophy around the neighbourhood and walked in on the scene.

Uncle Vernon had, predictably enough, changed colours faster than a chameleon and started shouting at Harry in a fury, while Aunt Petunia had chosen to promptly faint at the sight of Dumbledore, and her Popkin tried to hide behind his boxing trophy. Not that any of these chosen courses of action were of any help to them. A flick of his wand later, the headmaster had them all silent, awake, and unable to do much other than stare, wide-eyed, at him.

Dumbledore had then ordered the terrified Dursleys to the kitchen and, well, basically forbidden them to so much as raise their voices at Harry in the future, or else. It was then something fell into place, something Harry himself had never even taken into consideration before.

The Dursleys had been forced to raise Harry, everybody knew that. But it was Dumbledore who had arranged it, without even asking them what they thought of the matter. Just like he had done with Harry himself. They were being used, just as he was.

Or maybe not just like him.

There was a difference between Harry and his relatives, and this difference made Dumbledore's chosen course of action all the more unfair in their case. The Dursleys were muggles, as everyone knew, and thus, they were even more defenceless when facing Dumbledore – or any other wizard for that matter. They had no means of protection. Harry at least had his wand.

Plus, unlike Harry, _they_ were expendable.

Dumbledore had been quite clear in letting them know. Maybe not directly, but the implication had been rather explicit. Not even Dudley had missed it.

Harry had then stormed into the kitchen and told the headmaster to leave his relatives well alone. He believed he had, at some point, called Dumbledore a rotten, manipulating bastard, who was no better than Voldemort in his attempts to control everyone's lives, or something to that effect. The headmaster had not visited since, and the already sizable gap between him and the Boy Who Lived had grown to even greater, seemingly insurmountable proportions.

Harry had been astonished at how little he cared about it.

The next few days had passed without further incident, all of the inhabitants of four, Privet Drive falling into an unspoken arrangement that set a standard routine: the Dursleys made themselves scarce whenever the Order came for a visit, and Harry was left to deal with them. Additionally, the Dursleys had been rather civil to their nephew – Harry wasn't sure if it was because he had defended them or because they had taken Dumbledore's 'piece of advice' to heart. Whatever the case may be, for the first time ever Harry was being treated like a member of the family.

All right, maybe not quite so, but his home life had definitely improved somewhat, particularly in small ways that nevertheless caught his attention: Aunt Petunia was cooking all his favourite dishes, for example, and Dudley had even asked him if he wanted to watch a rental movie with him the previous night. They saw little of each other anyway, as Harry left his room only for meals and playing a reluctant host to the Order members.

Not that the poor sods assigned to visiting him were thrilled to do so, either. So far, Harry had seen Mrs. Figg, Dung, and a sour Shacklebolt – of the rest there was no sign. Mrs. Weasley still sent a daily lunch bag for him, but none of the remaining Order members had so much as peeked through the window, although Harry had managed to find out who was doing the guarding every day. Today it was Arthur Weasley's turn.

To be fair, it wasn't their fault; Harry hadn't been exactly friendly towards them, and there's only so much someone is willing to try to break through an unbreakable wall of ice. They had given up trying to cheer him up after a few days, and now were drawing straws to see who was to go and check on young Potter. Harry had seen them at it a few days earlier, when he had successfully disillusioned himself for the first time.

Settling for organising his Emergency Escape Kit for the umpteenth time, he soon found himself fingering the Animagus Potions and toying with the idea of just taking a sip... But no.

He could now fully understand the oppressive sort of frustration that must have taken hold of Sirius when he was at Grimmauld Place, locked up in the place he hated so much for one whole year. Harry was sure the temptation his godfather had been subjected to had been too much to bear. How could it not, if even Harry was itching to transform into an animal and slip outside, unnoticed by all, if only for a few moments of freedom...

"Fat lot of good that'll do," he muttered, replacing the Scary Snuffles vial in its protective case, and stowing it as deep in the Emergency Escape Kit as he could. Better not give in to the temptation. Not with Mad-Eye out there.

The Emergency Escape Kit and the Getaway Gags were really works of art, as Harry had found out shortly after sifting through them: all his most prized possessions found a new, feather-light, miniaturised home that he could carry about in his pockets.

The entire stock of Wheezes had made it into the Emergency Escape Kit, as did the Firebolt, the wands and invisibility cloaks. The case however, remained small and light, and Harry wondered just how much he could store in there before it was full. Once he had added the Marauders' Map, his defence books and photo album, he peered inside to find everything arranged – and there was still space left!

The Shopping Spree Satchel was also quite something: almost the entire contents of his trunk found a place there before it was filled. Harry was amazed: No longer would he have to worry about leaving his things behind and not finding them again, or having them confiscated by the Dursleys.

Although the last time his relatives had so much as attempted to force anything on him had been during the summer before his third year, the combination of the very tangible threat of Voldemort and one year under the tyranny of Dolores Umbridge had let Harry develop a certain apprehension for his most prized possessions. Few as they were, he valued them greatly, from his Firebolt down to the diary Hermione had given him the previous year, and he did not want any of his things lost.

* * *

The sun slowly crawled upwards on the clear morning sky, awakening the world with its bright, warm rays. The morning birds were singing in the branches of neatly-trimmed trees, and one by one, the respectable inhabitants of Little Whinging began to stir and go about their chores in what promised to be yet another bright and cheerful day.

This morning activity was lost to Harry, who was presently rereading his Charms book, having decided to put any thought of Potions out of his mind as long as possible, and sat on his bed, enjoying the remains of Mrs. Weasley's excellent cookery with a bottle of chilled butterbeer. There was, however, one sound which, in its intensity, could have woken the dead, at least as far as Harry was concerned. Every bit as predictable as Mrs. Number Three's time for turning on the dishwasher, Petunia Dursley's shrill voice disrupted the concentrated study of the foretold saviour of the wizarding world.

"Harry! Breakfast is ready!"

"Coming, Aunt Petunia," Harry called back automatically, rubbing the bridge of his nose in annoyance. Shutting his book with a snap, he stretched and replaced it in his Shopping Spree Satchel, pocketed it, drained his butterbeer, and left his bed for his second breakfast.

Slipping his feet into his ancient trainers as he shuffled out of his room, he took his untraceable wand and glanced at the scattered pile of bearings, tape and plastic his alarm clock had been.

A smirk made it across Harry's face, recognisable as such only for a fleeting moment, before he assumed the previous expression of grim determination it had sported since daybreak.

Newton was right. Highly annoying objects in movement do tend to break when travelling through the air at high speeds and faced with a solid wall.

The alarm had been stuck at five in the morning since he'd transfigured it into a floating target to practice a Spinning Hex on, no matter what he did to try and fix it.

Harry could never tell, afterwards, how he had whiled away the hours before the change of guard outside, which meant he could practice magic. He only remembered a sense of foreboding, as if he had forgotten that there was something he had to do. Not to mention worry for Hedwig, who had not returned from her nightly hunt mid-morning, as she usually did.

Then he heard Mr. Weasley greeting Mad-Eye ("Alastor, you'll never believe what the muggles use to cut the grass!") and snapped his Defence book shut with a relieved sigh, telling himself he could ask the visiting Order member to look for his owl. She had been gone for longer periods of time, after all.

He could finally practice magic.

* * *

The eagle-feather quill hovered about a foot over the desk, as it had been for the past fifteen minutes. It was joined by an inkpot and Hedwig's still empty cage floating upwards from the desk, an old toy soldier who had been beheaded by Dudley that came from under the bed, and a bent air rifle which flew from the toy shelves that lined one wall of the chamber. At the other end of the bedroom, Harry smiled, wiping the droplets of sweat that had formed on his face away with his left hand, while he brought the fingers of his right together, the floating items mimicking the movement, albeit a little slowly.

He then started levitating the items higher, using only his hand, his smile replaced by a look of utmost concentration, until they were grazing the ceiling. Harry was now able to perform a series of simple wandless 'spells' apart from levitation, like summoning things, opening doors or closing them, and – the one he was most proud about – crushing cans. He had wanted to create fire, like Lupin had done in his third year, but not a spark appeared.

_Yet_, he told himself firmly. _Not a spark has appeared _yet.

Harry flicked his wrist, causing the things floating near the ceiling to start a rather disjointed and spastic dance, but a dance nonetheless, in a circular motion. The trick, he had found out, was to remember each item and where it was at all times, so he could try and give some harmony to the weird twitching movements the objects were making...

A knock at the door startled him, causing the floating items to fall freely from their lofty positions. In a quick, practiced motion, Harry drew his wand out of his pocket and made them return to their original places, wiping sweat off his face even as he turned to answer the door.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia?" he asked upon opening it, trying to sound like he had just woken up from an afternoon nap.

"Do you have any laundry?" asked his aunt in a huffy tone that nevertheless did not convey the usual loathing she reserved for her nephew. The mere fact that she did his laundry now was more than rattling, in Harry's opinion. She hadn't done it since he was eight, if he remembered correctly.

At that moment, Harry's scar gave a painful throb.

"_Ow_!" Harry gasped, slapping his hand against his forehead, which suddenly felt as if someone were pinching his brain with a pair of tweezers. Aunt Petunia looked sceptically at him. "Er... I've got nothing, aunt Petunia."

"Is everything all right?" she asked stiffly, trying her best to look concerned and failing utterly.

"A-a_aahh_... I... no... yes, I'm f-f-fine." Harry brought forth through clenched teeth. The pain in his scar was mounting fast.

Aunt petunia shrugged dismissively and turned away, to set the washer, no doubt, when Harry had a flash of an image before his mind's eye: Dudley was cowering in terror before a dark-robed someone.

He could make out a well-known word before white-hot pain coursed through his every fibre and he fell to his knees, screaming at the top of his lungs.

He felt being roughly grabbed and shaken, Aunt Petunia's long fingernails digging into his arms as if in a dream, tried to understand what she was shouting at him, but the pain of a Cruciatus Curse threefold did not allow for more than screaming himself hoarse. He was aware of his muscles tensing, spasming out of pain, but he had no control of them. His hands went to his head, clawing, gripping at his forehead which burnt like melted iron, but the pain did not go away.

It never did.

In the play park, Harry knew, Dudley was being tortured in the same way.

The pain left him as abruptly as it had come. Harry blinked, wheezing, into his aunt's terrified face for a moment, before he found he could move again and all but leapt to his feet, drawing his wand as he went. Aunt Petunia jerked away from him with a startled scream of her own. Harry did not stop to apologise. Still disoriented from the sharp pain in his forehead, he concentrated on the one thought that had remained.

_Death Eaters. Torturing Dudley. Play park._

Harry stumbled towards the door of his room, everything dancing around him, his vision blurred although he had his glasses. He shook his head to clear it, but his eyesight would not right itself.

_Dudley. Play park. Get the Order._

"What happened, Harry?" he heard his aunt screech after him as he tore down the stairs and towards the door, stumbling over the clothes she had dropped when he started screaming.

"They—they've got Dudley!" he called back, taking the last eight steps at a leap and narrowly avoiding the large trophy that was – for some odd reason– still in the entrance hall. "In the play park! They... I need... the Order!"

Harry opened the door and hurtled past it, frantically looking for Mr. Weasley but seeing nobody. He adjusted his glasses, blinking furiously to clear his vision, and only then did he notice that tears were streaming down his face. He wiped them away, tried to catch his breath.

"Someone from the Order! They've got... the Death Eaters are here! They took Dudley! Mr. Weasley, help!" he shouted, his throat sore from all the screaming before.

There was no response.

Harry's heart was thumping hard against his ribs, his wand threatening to slip from his shaky grip.

_No response._

This was everything but good.

He caught a glimpse of the golden ward that had been placed to protect Privet Drive from an attack, and set off towards the street at a run. If he crossed the barrier, the Order would know he had left the house and would come to check on him. Suddenly, his foot caught on something and sent him crashing to the ground.

Turning around, he noticed his legs seemed to be hovering a foot above ground-level.

_Bug—oh no. Not good. Not good. Not good._ Harry's mind provided, increasingly shrill in its tone. By all looks of it, his brain had finally gotten jammed.

Not stopping to dread what he would find, or indeed looking around at the curious neighbours who were peering out their windows at the sounds of commotion, he crouched down and groped around in what seemed to be thin air. His fingers touched the familiar fabric of an invisibility cloak and he pulled, to reveal Mr. Weasley's prone figure.

_Not good. Not good -- Not **again**!_

Harry's brain was suddenly working itself into a storm while the rest of him was panicking. Not that this display of his multi-tasking abilities proved very helpful. Mr. Weasley was lying in front of number four, unconscious, maybe dead: there was a thin trickle of blood flowing from under his red hair and onto his cracked glasses.

The Order had failed once more. Dudley was being attacked by Death Eaters. Mr. Weasley needed help.

Harry was torn between helping his best friend's father and walking straight into what was a trap for him, no doubt. He did not move for a moment, finding himself at a loss what to do.

_Help Mr. Weasley or Dudley?_

Aunt Petunia had followed him outside, her face contorted with fear. For the first time ever, she did not panic at the sight of a wizard. Instead, she went straight to her nephew and took hold of his arm, quite effectively shaking him out of his stunned state.

"Boy – Harry – _who's got Diddy_?"

Harry glanced at her wide, fearful eyes for a split second. Petunia Dursley was looking pleadingly at him, asking for his help, although for once she had not said a thing. He had never seen that look directed at him before. His scar seared once more, and his mind was made up in an instant, his previous hesitation forgotten.

It was a trap. It had to be.

The Order might be too late to help.

What else could he do?

"Aunt Petunia – you bring Mr. Weasley inside," Harry said urgently, grabbing the invisibility cloak and getting to his feet so fast she nearly fell backwards. "I'll go and help Dudley – try and wake him up, and tell the Order the Death Eaters are in the play park!"

Before the terrified woman before him could answer, Harry had taken off towards Magnolia Crescent at full speed, donning the invisibility cloak as he went.

"Call Mrs. Figg, Aunt Petunia! They're in the play park!" he yelled over his shoulder, before he threw the hood of the cloak over his head and disappeared from view.

Mrs. Number Six fainted at the sight, and Number Seven's children started to scream in fright. After the entire neighbourhood had worked itself into a frenzy, Petunia Dursley's eyes still remained fixed on the spot where her nephew had disappeared, her fingernails digging convulsively into the shoulder of the wizard who was supposed to protect her family.

It was not until she felt Arthur Weasley begin to stir under her grip that she lowered her gaze, remembering Harry's parting words.

Then she started to shake him.

* * *

"When I said I wanted to leave the house for a bit, I didn't mean it _this_ way," Harry muttered furiously under his breath as he sped along the deserted alleyway towards the play park. He was certain it was a trap, he knew he was playing right into the Death Eaters' hands, but there was nothing else he could do – he had to help Dudley.

_You're an idiot, Potter._ He felt his inner voice was right.

Behind him, the sounds of confused chaos still trailed to his ears, rising higher by the moment: Harry made a sound in the back of his throat that was something between a chuckle and a groan. Do something out of the ordinary in Little Whinging, and the whole area is bound to know faster than blinking. And what had just happened could well be termed as out of the ordinary – _anywhere_.

The Obliviators would have their work cut out for them. He just hoped the Aurors would arrive first on the scene, and that Aunt Petunia would have the common sense to tell them of the Death Eaters.

Harry reached Magnolia Drive without incident – not that he had expected to be attacked here, this _was_ a trap, after all – and slowed down a fraction, warily glancing left and right as he trotted noiselessly towards the far end of the play park, where he could barely make out a group of people dressed in black beside the swings.

In their midst, another figure was floating in midair, issuing terrified screams and unmistakable squeals. Wand raised, Harry stole towards the group of Death Eaters who were presently spinning Big D like a king-sized top and laughing at his frightened screams.

Never before in his sheltered life had Dudley Dursley, boxing champion and bully of the neighbourhood extraordinaire, resembled a beach ball more than he did at the moment. Harry found himself beginning to smirk when he remembered that this wasn't supposed to be funny, but dangerous and terrifying.

Strangely, he felt neither fear nor dread – he moved automatically, counting his foes and preparing to make the best of his situation, which was about to turn for the worse in a few moments' time.

_Seven of them, one of me_, he thought, shaking his head to clear it. _Which would be the best angle of attack?_

He inched closer to the circle of Death Eaters, who didn't seem to even be looking for him, engrossed as they were in what looked like a contest to see who could make the muggle scream louder.

_They're not too original, are they?_ The little voice in Harry's head commented. The Death Eaters had done a very similar thing at the Quidditch World Cup a couple of years earlier. _You'd think they've had the time to think of something else to entertain themselves with..._

Indeed, it seemed like the seven Death Eaters were merely amusing themselves with torturing Harry's cousin, apparently without a care about the proximity to Privet Drive and the Order.

_Uh-huh,_ Harry thought grimly, _and Mr. Weasley chose to crack his skull open of his own accord, did he?_ He took a tentative step forward, racking his brains as to how he could get Big D and himself out of this alive. It seemed easy, distracted as they were...

Then he noticed the poisonous blue shimmer surrounding the Death Eaters and stopped short in his tracks. He gritted his teeth.

_I should've known._

A very tall Death Eater stepped forward, thrusting his wand up into the air. Dudley Dursley was impelled high upwards with a sharp cry, still spinning round in the air. A collective laugh issued from the Death Eaters as they watched their porky victim stop rising and speed towards the ground like a huge cannonball in a royal blue tracksuit.

None seemed to notice the barrier thinned somewhat the higher they threw Dudley, except for the bespectacled boy in the invisibility cloak behind them.

Harry was struck by sudden inspiration. After disillusioning himself (just in case), he pointed his wand at his cousin, muttering a powerful cushioning charm under his breath, and leapt into the thinning barrier with a yell.

_CRACK!_

The barrier broke, only feebly trying to hold him back, and seven heads turned his way, silver masks reflecting the light of the setting sun in shades of blood red. Harry leapt to the right at once, relying on the invisibility cloak to remain unseen. Seven beams of light shot towards the spot where he had breached the barrier a mere moment earlier, impacting on the ground somewhere behind him in a burst of dust.

In the background, Dudley Dursley fell heavily to the ground, his impact made softer by the cushioning charm. But he was by no means light. There was a dull thump that Harry felt beneath his feet, immediately followed by a sickening crack and a loud scream of pain that nevertheless did not rise above the confused din that rang from the Death Eaters.

Harry had other more pressing problems at the moment, however. Hoping that Dudley would have the common sense to drag his fat self as far away from the fray as possible, he dodged a purple jet of light and raised his wand.

_Time to try out the new spells..._

"He's got an invisibility cloak!" a voice yelled loudly. "He's going to try and take the muggle!"

Harry rolled his eyes. _Talk about stating the bleeding obvious._

"_Eructo evomo_!" Harry hissed, his jaw clenched in concentration. A Death Eater nearby suddenly bent double, projectile-vomiting on the ground.

_At least it does work nicely._

Harry glanced at his slobbering victim appreciatively, rolling to the side as soon as the blue jet of light left his wand. He had given out his position by the beam of his spell, and for a moment concentrated only on dodging the curses and hexes that rent the air so thickly, he could almost not make out the wizards and witches casting them.

If the Death Eaters' spells were flying every which way, Harry did his best to reciprocate. He bought himself a few precious seconds with a handy sun-bright lighting charm, which had been recommended for use against vampires, but worked quite nicely with Death Eaters as well. The blast of light made them back off and blink stupidly for a few seconds, and Harry took the chance to cast a few stunners and hurling hexes their way while he moved towards Dudley.

"Where is he now?" A man's voice, rendered harsh beneath the mask, asked loudly as Harry tiptoed past behind him, narrowly dodging a Slashing Curse thrown randomly by yet another Death Eater. Dudley had not moved, remaining in the same position he had fallen in, but Harry could see his eyes open wide in sheer terror, reflecting the multicoloured beams of the spells.

Three Death Eaters were down, but one of the remaining four was busy reviving them. He received a sleeping charm for his troubles before he had so much as flicked his wand, courtesy of Harry.

"Where are you, itty bitty baby Potter?" Bellatrix Lestrange called in that mocking baby-voice she liked so much.

_Never mind me. I'd like to know where the Order are, really,_ Harry mentally replied, skirting around the swings and approaching Dudley from the left.

"Does baby Potter want to rescue his elephant of a cousin, eh?" She cast a slashing hex that almost felled a tree, ten feet away from where Harry was standing. "Bitty Potter, we knew you would come. But the muggle is ours."

Harry made himself ignore her. She couldn't see him, and was relying on taunting him so he'd do something stupid.

Well, something even _more_ stupid than going to rescue Dudley from the Death Eaters on his own.

If he managed to get to Dudley unscathed, he could fly them both out of there and reach number four before the Death Eaters did. Then the wards around the house would do the rest.

However, one of the Death Eaters at least seemed to have the same idea.

As one, the Death Eaters advanced in on Dudley instead, their wands raised, their eyes peeled for any movement behind their masks. Dudley finally moved, whimpering pitifully as he backed away from the masked figures, which came ever closer to him like a pack of wolves ready for the kill.

Harry sprinted ahead of them, fumbling with the fastenings of the invisibility cloak with one hand. He turned and fired three stunners in quick succession, dodging the answering beams with practiced ease. This would be so much easier if he was airborne... Harry's eyes narrowed. His next spell was aimed at his cousin.

"_Levo Pondus_!" The lightening charm hit Dudley squarely in the chest. Unfortunately for Harry, the Death Eaters had noticed his position. He was thrown off his feet and against the swings. Before he could move aside from the next spell, he saw the tall Death Eater perform an odd flourish with his wand. The ensuing beam of silver light hit him full in the chest, and Harry was thrown backwards, feeling as if thousands of shards of glass had been hurled at him.

Surprisingly, there was no pain at the moment, although it felt like he had a thousand bleeding paper cuts.

_This is going to hurt later..._

Harry raffled himself up as fast as he could, sending an Incineration Hex back at the group of Death Eaters, despite feeling rather winded.

"Baby Potter wants to play the hero, does he?" Somehow, Bellatrix Lestrange managed to merge hate, amusement and pure evil into this one sentence. "Why save the muggle, widdle Harry? They're lots of fun to play with," she went on in a sing-song voice. It made him want to throttle her.

"The muggle will die, Potter. _Avada Kedavra_!"

Not a moment too soon, Harry's free hand thrust out to wandlessly banish the now feather-light Dudley five feet to the right, while he himself rolled away from the green jet of light; he'd been right in front of Dudley at the time. Before he had even come to standstill in a crouch, he had sent a flame-throwing curse at Lestrange.

It missed by inches, and she laughed. He looked down at himself and noticed he had become partly visible again: the Disillusionment Charm had been cancelled, and his head was now floating in midair. Not stopping to rearrange the cloak, he cast a Reductor Curse her way. Once more, he missed.

"You know how to play the game, bitty baby Potter," she called, "but you're too much like my cousin – you don't know when to turn and run, and when you finally do, you _trip_."

The taunt about Sirius made Harry's blood boil. He would not play _her_ game, however.

"_Ictus foro_!" he shouted the Spear Hex, pointing his wand at Lestrange and throwing himself towards Dudley in one motion. Lestrange dodged again, and Harry sent two Reductor Curses at the other Death Eaters, taking the short moment to take off the invisibility cloak and throw it to Dudley.

"Put that on and get out of here!" he yelled.

Dudley didn't move, looking for all the world like a pig caught in the headlights of a lorry. Harry made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat. This was going to be difficult.

"Put it on, you idiot!" Harry hissed, backing off towards Dudley and casting Shield Charms every which way. The only answer he received was a whimper, but he couldn't afford to turn around. The tall Death Eater had revived the rest, and presently was organising them in two groups. At the far end of the park, near the shed he had hidden in the last time, Harry saw a group of people, casting spells that disappeared in flashes of light against yet another shimmering barrier.

The Order had arrived.

It wasn't a relieving thought.

The Order was locked out from the fray.

Again.

_They really should know better by now,_ the voice in Harry's head quipped. Why it sounded so merry was beyond him.

"Why does everything have to be so complicated _every blasted time_?" Harry muttered furiously as his hand plunged into his dragonhide case, his fingers trembling while he felt his way towards his Firebolt.

Instead he drew out a round, fist-sized object. The Portable Swamp. Harry looked at it, an idea breaking through his thoughts.

He lifted an eyebrow. It just might work...

He leapt aside from the swings, avoiding yet another Killing Curse. There was a metallic clang, and the entire structure crumbled down in on itself. Harry took his chance and threw the miniaturised Portable Swamp at the feet of the Death Eaters, who paid it no heed. They were presently casting Reductor Curses at Dudley.

Harry caught a glimpse of the deadly rainbow and jumped towards it, casting the most powerful Shield Charm he knew in one quick motion.

"_Contra Contego_!"

Harry fell into a crouch in front of Dudley and grabbed hold of his fat wrist, pulling him down even as a bright silver shield curved around him and his cousin, like an umbrella. The spells impacted his shield as one, only to be rebounded onto their casters. There was a startled yell to his right, telling him that at least one of the Death Eaters had not jumped away in time.

At once, Harry pointed his wand at the sleek round surface of the Portable Swamp.

"_Expando Swamp_!" he shouted. The seven Death Eaters were suddenly hip-deep in mud, unable to disapparate because their own anti-apparition wards were in place, with the purpose of giving the Order a hard time. Lestrange's face contorted with fury, she raised her wand – "_Congelo Swamp_!" Harry shouted next, dodging a green beam and pushing Dudley out of the way.

"_Everbero_!" a man's voice shouted from behind Harry.

Harry was thrown against his cousin, wheezing. He turned and cast a Deflection Charm around him and Dudley, which would give him time enough to conceal his cousin and get him out of harm's way.

A bright yellow jet of light bounced off Harry's shield, crashing into the ward that kept the Order out. Harry saw Kingsley Shacklebolt and Bill Weasley at the head of the group hurrying towards them but gave them little notice otherwise. They were still too far away, and the Death Eaters still had their wands.

It still could get worse.

In Harry's experience, it _would_ get much worse.

Harry's hands flew over Dudley's quivering form, adjusting the cloak around his body, and fairly throwing him amidst some bushes. His shield broke, and Harry ducked away from another jet of purple light. He didn't know what sort of spell it was, and he did _not want to find out_.

_There. Diddydinkdums is out of the way._

Harry flashed Bellatrix Lestrange a lopsided grin. Now they'd play in his terrain.

The Firebolt left Harry's pocket, and a moment later, he was airborne.

_Now we're cooking, mate,_ the voice in his head commented appreciatively, and Harry couldn't but agree. In the air, he was well nigh untouchable.

Rolling and doing loop-de-loops every which way, he circled the Death Eaters at breakneck speed, dodging their spells almost effortlessly.

"_Everbero! Expelliarmus! Accio wands! Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy! Expelliarmus! Accio!_" Harry shouted, deftly disarming first Lestrange and the tall Death Eater, then two others. He let go of his broom, directing its movement with his knees while he caught the wands that flew out of the Death Eaters' hands. MacPherson fell right on his nose as he was hit by a Stunning Spell, and Harry chuckled as he disarmed him successfully for the second time.

In the background, Harry could hear the shouts and spells of the Order approaching, but he didn't pay them any further thought. All his efforts were bent on disarming the Death Eaters as fast as he could.

A Death Eater Harry did not recognise still had his wits – and wand – about him, though. In a flash of light, the anti-apparition wards were gone. Lestrange grabbed his wand before he could apparate out of the swamp and did so herself, appearing outside the swamp and firing a Cruciatus Curse at Harry.

She missed, but only narrowly. Harry swerved aside and pointed his broom towards her, intending to hit her with a Spear Hex, at the very least – an Incineration Curse would do as nicely, though. The cracks of the Order members apparating around them could be heard already. Harry's eyes narrowed.

He just needed _one shot_. He aimed his wand --

Then Bellatrix Lestrange turned around and fired a Cruciatus Curse at Dudley.

Harry could only see his cousin had moved, dropping the Invisibility Cloak as he tried to stand, before he felt a blinding, white-hot pain in his scar once more.

He was falling fast, his Firebolt unresponsive to his spasming attempts to manoeuvre despite the pain – he managed to steer it towards Lestrange, gritting his teeth so hard something cracked in his mouth, but there was no time to stop. He shot towards her, breaking her concentration – the pain left him, and he fell to the ground, never letting go of his broom, and coming to a standstill against Dudley, whose gasping breath was the only thing he could hear apart from a shrill ringing in his ears.

Things just had gotten as bad as they could get.

Everything seemed to Harry as if it were happening in slow motion. He heard Bellatrix Lestrange give a triumphant shout, louder than the Order's own frantic ones. They had managed to cross the barrier and now were duelling the Death Eaters. All around Harry, the spells being cast were blurs of colour, but he gave them no notice: His attention was riveted on a spot of green light that formed on the tip of Lestrange's wand.

He saw, more than heard, the words of the Killing Curse form on her lips; a strange rushing resounded in his ears now – he felt Dudley's racing heartbeat slow through the hold he kept on his wrist, his cousin's gasping breath... he had to get them both out of this, but where could he go?

Harry's eyes widened – the green beam left the wand – Lestrange's grin grew manic, her eyes reflecting the shimmer of her curse – If only he could get them both out of here... _anywhere... away from her..._

The rushing in his ears became unbearable, as if he had been caught in a whirlwind of sound – the deadly light came closer, slowly, almost hesitantly, and still Harry was unable to stir.

Then everything sped up. He heard the shouts of dismay and fighting around him, and the words Lestrange had uttered somehow reached his ears, a faint, yet carrying hiss:

"You are too late, Dumbledore!" she cackled, resembling Sirius' crazy mother more than Harry had ever before appreciated.

Harry did not see the headmaster. All he saw was the flash of light fly towards him, felt his breath catch in his lungs, an icy wind blowing around him, his last conscious thought being, a_nywhere but here..._

Harry's one-handed grip on Dudley's arm tightened convulsively, and, even as the green jet of light reached its target, the world went black.

* * *

TBC. 


	9. Under a Blood Red Sky

**Disclaimer: **Does anyone actually _read_ disclaimers, I wonder? They're fun to read, and even more fun to write. Except for those long-winded, never-ending ones that do not really have much of a point to make and keep the faithful reader from finding out what happens after the evil cliffhanger the bad, bad author left behind the previous chapter. Luckily for you, this disclaimer isn't one of them: The Potter-centric universe, all of its characters and elements included, isn't mine, of course. It's all JK Rowling's, which you know already, otherwise you wouldn't be reading this fic at all, now would you? Many people have better things to do on Boxing Day (or any other day, for that matter) than read a fic that plays after Book 5 of the Harry Potter Series if they haven't read the books beforehand, I would think.

Yes, I do have my little bright moments of cold, rational logic sometimes. Since this is done for fun, I do not, nor do I believe I ever will, receive any sort of monetary compensation for my fan fiction writing. If that were the case, I'd be in heaven, and I'm old enough to realise life's not _that_ good. I do appreciate reviews, though.

P.S. You should have skipped this part.

What is mine: Anything you do not recognise from elsewhere, the OC's, and Harry's molar. The spells came from a Latin dictionary.

**Dedication: **To everyone who said I was evil! I bow to you. And to everyone who read the disclaimer and didn't fall asleep halfway through it. Christmas is finally, blessedly over!

Now, to business.

* * *

**Chapter Nine – Under A Blood Red Sky**

The explosion had knocked them off their feet, a clash of colours and sheer power unleashed. It had set the very air on fire, and the ensuing bright white flash of light faded slowly in a cloud of black smoke that rose from the ground, that drowned out all sounds for a long moment: everyone present had been blinded and deafened by the strength of the spell.

If it had been a spell at all.

The smoke showed no signs of fading, lingering above ground like a stubborn cloud.

Albus Dumbledore paid no heed to the lack of visibility. He knew where he was going. He strode towards the spot where he had seen Harry last, his speed astonishing for his age, dispelling the blackness with a wave of his wand.

Dumbledore stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes fixed on a spot on the ground. He did not move for a long moment.

Around him, the sounds of wizards' and witches' approaching footsteps could be heard, a silent gathering of an army around their leader.

Never before, not even to those who had been by his side for the longest time, had the aged headmaster of Hogwarts looked so old and bent as he did at the moment. His eyes were dull as he turned to face them, his shoulders sagging in utter defeat.

They did not move or speak, but merely regarded the headmaster with an intensity that betrayed their stony faces. Dumbledore watched them silently, knowing he would have to break the news to them. He could almost predict what their reactions would be; he had seen many of them grow in his care, and many he had seen die, some fighting for the light, some for the dark. Some... some, like Harry, for survival. He hung his head, silver tears rolling down his face and trickling on his beard.

He said nothing. There was no need for words.

He closed his eyes as Remus Lupin pushed past him, followed hesitantly by the rest. The strangled cry that issued from behind him echoed his heart's tortured one – a cry that spoke volumes; of disbelief, of pain, denial... of regret and remorse, grief and loss rolled into one choked, carrying sound.

Silence followed.

The headmaster did not need to turn around to witness Remus Lupin fall to his knees as they gave way, the tortured sound dying in his lips.

"He can't be dead," Lupin said abruptly, almost angrily, wrenching himself from Mad-Eye's steadying hold with a brusque movement and staring down the blackened hole, his eyes smouldering like coal. "_He can't be_. Not Harry."

Dumbledore did not try and correct him; they had all seen the green flash of light hit Harry between the eyes. Yet he too, old and wise as he was, believed it could not be. It _could not be possible_ – the Prophecy said quite clearly that this... that this _could not happen._

But it had.

The crater on the ground did not lie to them any more than the shards of glass and the splatters of blood that could be seen plainly by all of them, mocking their plans and measures, telling them they had failed young Harry for the last time.

* * *

"Mrs. Dursley, please do take a seat."

"Where is my boy?" The shriek echoed down a street alive with robed people, many of whom looked in on the scene with shadowed eyes. Petunia Dursley did not care; her balled hands beat against the old man standing before her, time and again, against his unmoving chest. He did nothing to stop her.

She was crying; she did not know the exact circumstances in which it had happened, no. She did not need to know the details. The old wizard's face was confirmation enough – her boy was—no. Her _boys_ were dead.

"H-h... he said he would h-h-help m-m-my Diddy!" Petunia sobbed desperately, clinging to Dumbledore's chest. "They hurt them, they hurt them both... he said he would help my son!"

Minerva McGonagall took a deep breath, dabbing at her own teary eyes. It was bad enough to accompany the headmaster of Hogwarts to inform Petunia Dursley of the boys' passing, without Dumbledore breaking down before her and the desperate, near-hysterical muggle woman. Now, more than ever, they needed him to be strong.

Now, more than ever.

Their hope had been shattered with Harry's... passing. When this made it to the news, the wizarding world would panic – and turn to Dumbledore for answers. He could not be weak.

Not now.

Remus had chosen to remain behind by the hole. They had not questioned his decision, of course – he had been close to the Potters in their time, and the death of Sirius not three weeks earlier was still too fresh, too raw for him. He did not believe Harry had... passed, though.

There is only so much suffering one can take.

Lupin was accompanied by Bill Weasley, while the rest of the Order dealt with the more immediate consequences of everything else that had just happened.

Twenty Obliviators had to be dispatched to Little Whinging, along with a contingent of Aurors to take in the six Death Eaters who had been captured, their scarlet robes oddly fitting in the red gleam of the setting sun. Medi-wizards had taken Arthur Weasley and Hestia Jones to St. Mungo's, and a squadron of the Ministry's finest Hit Wizards had been posted around number four, Privet Drive, in the most efficient display of aftermath coordination. The Order of the Phoenix paid them little notice. They had come too late. Harry could use their efficiency about as much as he could use a piece of Drobble's Best Blowing Gum.

They insisted to stay, though, in case the Death Eaters made a return appearance: Bellatrix Lestrange and another, rather tall fellow, had both managed to flee.

Professor McGonagall doubted they would return. Not a month after the battle in the Department of Mysteries, You-Know-Who's side had as good as won the war.

The family had to be informed, of course. They needed to be told that their son and nephew had died. The muggles would ask to see their son, at the very least.

They did not even have a body to bury.

To judge by the howl Mrs. Dursley had just uttered, Dumbledore had already told her.

They moved to the living room, after that bit of news. Petunia Dursley and Albus Dumbledore had to be steered to the sofa, identical lost looks on their faces.

With yet another deep breath, Minerva McGonagall started to explain what she had seen. She told the suddenly old-looking woman about Harry's attempts to disarm the Death Eaters, trying to give Dudley a chance to run. While she spoke, she found herself reliving the day Harry had been brought here. Back then, she had wondered how someone so shallow like Petunia Dursley could be related to the humane and determined Lily Potter. She had never expected the death of Lily's child to give her the answer.

Halfway through her story, the Transfiguration teacher stopped to dab at her eyes. Her voice failed her, she could not go on.

The silence that stretched in the room was mournful, rendering the air almost too thick to breathe. It was worse than speaking.

Professor McGonagall made herself continue.

* * *

Whiteness.

Blackness.

Whiteness.

A cold wind blew across his face, and he stirred slowly, almost lazily. There was no feeling, no sound. Only the wind, blowing up the back of his tee shirt as he lay on his side on the uneven ground of what felt like a slope.

Harry didn't mind, though. He found it peaceful, this silence. If this was death, it wasn't too bad. No pressures, no pain...

If only the wind weren't so strong and the sunlight not so feeble, it would be downright enjoyable.

He cracked an eye open, and saw nothing but a great expanse of grassland and a red sky. _Blurry_ grassland. With a _blurry_ sky. He blinked. The blur did not fade – he needed his glasses.

Closing his eyes again, Harry groaned. It would have to be his luck, wouldn't it, to still need glasses _after_ he'd died. Whatever he had done to deserve this, it must have been really, _really_ bad.

The cold wind did not relent, but whipped his large tee shirt like a flag, icy against his wet skin. Harry shivered, feeling goosebumps rise all over his back. There was a stone digging into his side, and it proved quite uncomfortable to lie on. He groaned again, but still refused to try and move.

Death, he decided, wasn't all that much fun anymore.

He brought a hand to his face to rub his eyes, and the silence was broken by a grunting moan that didn't come from him. His hand never reached his face.

He knew that kind of sound, that voice... but if that voice was here, with him... that meant that he wasn't—

He... _wasn't_?

* * *

_...although the word at the moment is against overloading you with pressures, should you tear at the seams. I know better, even if they don't listen to me anymore._

_How right, you were, Sirius... _Dumbledore regarded the parchment mournfully for a long time. He was standing, for the first time, in Harry's bedroom, where he had found the piece of white parchment on the bedside table.

It felt soft between his fingers, as if it had been crumpled up and smoothed down repeatedly. There were parts he found difficult to read, due to the many stains and smudges of ink that might have come from water splashing on the paper.

Tears, more likely.

_... You have the right to know everything that's going on, but he doesn't want to understand. Don't blame Dumbledore, he's trying his best to keep you safe, Harry. He only needs to stop thinking of you as a child._

_Once again, you were correct. Would that I had listened to you back then. I have made many mistakes, Sirius... You were right all along. I have failed._

The letter's words were blurred further as more drops fell on the parchment. Dumbledore returned it to its rightful place, wiping his eyes.

"I failed you, Harry, in more ways than you will ever know," the old man whispered. "I hope that wherever you are, you can find the grace to forgive me."

He rose to his feet, intending to leave, his eyes roving around the tiny room. Harry had not spent many happy moments here, he could _feel_ it. Dumbledore took a step towards the door, and his eyes fell upon the top of Harry's chest of drawers. A corner of a Daily Prophet clipping could be seen, marked in the scarlet ink Gryffindor students used.

Soon the headmaster was sitting on the lumpy bed, sifting through a pile of notes on spells, lists of hexes, and newspaper clippings that had been written on in hurried handwriting. They showed times, dates, names of Death Eaters that referred to each clipping, pointed out mistakes in the retelling of whatever had happened.

Harry had kept busy, it seemed.

"Albus?"

"Yes, Alastor?"

"It's Lupin. He insists Harry isn't dead."

"I understand... I find it hard to believe it myself... I'll be down in a moment—"

"You don't understand, Albus," Moody growled urgently. "Potter is not dead."

"What?"

"The Weasley boy cast some Egyptian jinx. He confirmed it. Potter is alive."

"_Alive_?" The headmaster's voice quavered. Moody nodded briskly. At times like these, and he had seen almost too many to be entirely conceivable as possible, Alastor Moody was all business.

"Yes. And, by all looks of it, so is the bucketful of lard that is his cousin."

* * *

_I'm... not?_

There was a grunting sound somewhere to his left. For Harry, that was answer enough.

He wasn't.

Dead.

Oh.

Harry's eyes snapped open, his pleasant numbness forgotten. Raising his head just enough to look around and squinting at the reddish sunrays that hurt his eyes, he tried to spot his cousin. There was nothing there, except for a pair of legs not too far to the left, and they must be Dudley's. Nobody else wore yellow, neon-coloured trainers with a royal blue tracksuit. And red socks.

Harry felt slightly disappointed at the discovery.

_So I'm not dead, then. Ah well, it was fun while it lasted._

He frowned. Since legs couldn't talk, much less muggle legs, he supposed the rest of Dudley must be nearby. And sure enough, there was another pitiful moan moments later.

"Where are we, Harry?" Dudley's legs – the only visible part of him – inquired in a low, rather tremulous tone.

Harry tried to answer, but he choked on something. The resulting retch was tortuous; His jaw felt like it had been unhinged as he opened his mouth to spit out a mouthful of blood – and a tooth.

_This gets better and better,_ he thought bitterly, reaching out with a leaden hand to retrieve his molar, while he searched for the hole with his tongue. Ow.

"Did... did we escape?" came the voice again.

"Looks like it..." Harry muttered thickly in a hoarse whisper, noticing absently his throat felt like someone had used a file against it. From the inside. Ow, ow.

Harry regarded his broken-off tooth with a grimace, the sweetish-metallic taste of blood lingering in his mouth. After a short silence, his stinging eyes returned to regard what he could see of his cousin.

He rested his head against the ground again, weighing his options. Something told him that if he moved, it would hurt. If he didn't move, that stone digging into his side would likely bore a hole in his liver, and that was hurting _now_. If he wanted to get rid of that stone, he'd have to move...

"There's no way out of it, is there?" he sighed quietly in defeat, his voice tight with the mounting pain.

"About time you woke up."

"What do you mean?" Harry whispered. He hadn't been out of it that long, had he?

"You were out cold for over an hour," the legs insisted, and suddenly an arm appeared a bit further away from them, decorated in the same blue tracksuit fabric, and waved a fat silver wristwatch at him once it had disentangled itself from the Invisibility Cloak. "Well, it's been over an hour since I woke up."

"Really?" Harry whispered idly in response. The longer he talked to those legs (he was beginning to think he'd do better in regarding them as his cousin, but couldn't bring himself to do so), the longer he could put off thinking about moving.

"Where are we?" the legs asked in the same small voice that was so unlike Dudley's usual tone. Perhaps that was why it proved easier to think of his present companion as legs?

_Who cares?_ he thought exasperatedly, trying to roll his eyes.

_Ow, ow, ow. Better close them... sleep for a while..._

_Well, it _would_ be nice to find out where we are, wouldn't it? _Harry's inner voice said, reminding him that _he_ was supposed to be alert and wondering where he had gotten them landed in, not Dudley. Or his legs, for that matter.

"Any ideas as to where we are?" the pair of legs repeated.

"Dunno..." There was no way out of it: he had to change his position. That stone felt like a knife in his side now.

Harry hesitantly brought a very sore hand to the stony ground and sat up with difficulty. The sweet, lovely numbness was gone, and now his body protested at every little movement. Even blinking hurt.

"It's bloody freezing here." Dudley whined from under the Invisibility cloak, which was now whipping in the increasing wind, reflecting the red rays of the sun like a liquid flag.

"Ow." Harry replied, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his sore head in his hands.

Almost against his will, he forced himself to open his eyes. The reddish sunlight made them hurt, but he needed to find his glasses. So he squinted stupidly at the ground for a few long moments, until he realised his glasses would likely be somewhere behind him, where his head had been.

"Have you seen my glasses, Dud?" Harry rasped, wincing at the pain in his throat.

"No. Can we go now?"

"Bugger." Screwing his stinging eyes against the fading light, Harry made himself turn around and look for his spectacles. All he saw, apart from Dudley's legs, was his Firebolt lying a few feet to his right.

Great. He'd lost his glasses.

Harry squinted around the slope, but all he saw were blurs of scattered boulders and a few trees here and there. Something told him they were not far from a mountain range. He was reminded of the boulders around Hogsmeade, where Sirius had hidden out in his fourth year.

There was not a sign of life around them, as far as he could see – which wasn't all that much, either. What to do?

"D'you know where we are now?" Dudley asked.

"No."

"B-but you brought us here!" Dudley protested, sounding tearful. "My leg hurts, and I can't stand up," he moaned. "I want to go home."

"I don't even know how we got here in the first place, Dud. How do you expect me to find the way back?" came the quiet, raspy answer.

"But it's getting dark! Maybe there are... there are w-w-wolves around here!" Dudley's voice rose a couple of octaves. Harry managed a pained smile. Wolves were the least of his problems at the moment.

Gritting his teeth, he crawled slowly towards his cousin, not trusting himself to stand just yet. It was quite painful, but at least everything seemed to be working more or less properly.

Particularly his nerve endings. _Ow_.

Up close, he saw Dudley had not been lying; his left leg was twisted in a weird angle at the knee, and his fat face was sweaty and pale.

"Looks ugly," Harry murmured at the sight. "Here, let me—"

Harry reached out for Dudley and helped him sit up in a more comfortable position. It was like trying to help a rhinoceros to roll over. Much puffing and wincing later, both boys were sitting side by side, leaning against each other for support.

"What do you see, Dud?" Harry whispered hoarsely, blinking away some blood and squinting at the scenery in a fruitless attempt to make out some shape other than those irritating blurs.

"Hillsides, huge rocks, and a couple of trees," Dudley grunted, clutching his leg with his ham-like hands. "That's it."

"Sodding perfect mess, this," Harry mumbled hoarsely, fumbling in his pockets for his wand. It wasn't there – he must have dropped it. Maybe near the broom...

"_Accio_..." Hang on. What should he summon? "Just... just _Accio_," he muttered tiredly, waving his hand at the spot where he thought his wand might have fallen.

Dudley gave a start as suddenly bits of wood and a broom flew towards them, but Harry merely flicked his fingers, causing whatever he had summoned to land before them with a clatter. He regarded the objects for a few moments, making a mental inventory.

_Hm. Wands, check. Broom, check – oh, glasses. _Reparo_. There, that's better._

Harry picked a wand from the handful he now had, gratefully placing his bent spectacles on his nose, and stowing everything else in his pocket. The fact that they had only one lens did not matter at the moment. He could see again.

He didn't like what he saw, though: All around them, as far as he could see, a vast expanse of wasteland that stretched into the horizon, steep hill country sparsely covered with trees and patches of grass that grew amongst the rocky ground. He felt too much in the open all of a sudden. Something told him he ought to move to a more sheltered spot. Now.

"All right, then. Let's go, Dud."

"G-go _where_?" Dudley whimpered, half terrified of his cousin's magic, half choked by the pain in his leg.

"I'd say... over there, where those big boulders are. It's bound to be less windy. We're too much in the open here." Harry got to unsteady feet.

"I can't _move_," Dudley moaned.

"Oh, right – sorry." Harry pointed his wand at the injured leg, and Dudley recoiled. "Oh, don't be such a baby – I'm just going to bandage it," he added exasperatedly, tapping his wand lightly against Dudley's leg. "_Ferula_. There, better now?"

Dudley had expected a lot of pain – he had once broken a finger, and the repositioning of the bone had been excruciating. He closed his eyes, a loud howl at the ready, but he felt nothing except a certain relieving tightness around his knee. Opening his eyes again, he saw a perfectly placed bandage.

Harry smirked grimly. _Muggles_...

Before Dudley's astonishment had faded, Harry cast a simple levitation charm on him and staggered slowly towards the closest cluster of rocks, Dudley floating in his wake like a large balloon.

* * *

Number four, Privet Drive had been the host of many – very much unwelcome – magical beings over the years. However, the last thing its inhabitants expected, was for it to be turned into the temporary headquarters of a secret society. A secret society, moreover, whose ranks were filled by the oddest of people. There was a ragged-looking fellow who was a werewolf (Vernon had needed a double sherry after this statement was made), and who had apparently _smelt_ that Harry and Dudders were not killed, a girl whose hair and nose changed at will, and the crazed, disfigured man with that awful spinning eye, who was by far, the loudest of the lot.

These – and other – people had turned Harry's bedroom inside and out, in their search for clues to the boys' whereabouts. Petunia and Vernon Dursley stayed out of their way, but remained in the living room with them.

Dudley was alive, they said, and Petunia would do anything to help him. This included playing host to the brand of people she had spent years trying to erase from her memory.

"We've looked everywhere," a young man dressed in jeans and a leather jacket announced, retying his red ponytail as he spoke. "Most of Harry's things are gone – in his trunk we found some old school supplies and clothes, nothing more."

"He left his cauldron, scales and telescope," a dumpy, red-headed witch added, "but the potions ingredients are gone. So is his owl."

"It's almost as if he had _packed_," Bill said grimly. This discovery was bound to slow their investigation down.

"So we might assume that wherever Potter apparated to, he has a few things with him to help him," Moody barked with a laugh. "That should be good news, eh?"

"Did he apparate at all?" It was Shacklebolt who voiced their doubts. There was the very tangible possibility of his body having been portkeyed away. It had happened before, hadn't it?

"There's no trace to suggest he could have," Arthur Weasley sighed, shaking his bandaged head. He had been adamant in helping find Harry. Somewhere in St. Mungo's, there was a very confused healer looking for her patient. They could always deal with Andromeda later. She'd understand – after having Arthur's head for dinner.

"He could not possibly know how to apparate," McGonagall threw in. "He is only fifteen, after all."

"He was using an untraceable wand, though." Bill Weasley had taken Remus' side, and was positive Harry had, somehow, managed to escape, alive, after being hit with the Killing Curse full in the face – without leaving a trace of magic behind to give them the slightest clue as to where he might be.

"Nobody can learn to apparate on his own!" Snape spat furiously from his customary corner. The Potions Master was in a dreadful mood. He had arrived moments earlier with the news that the Death Eaters responsible for "the failed attack on Mr. Potter" were every bit as shocked as they were about the turn of events. Instead of dying as they'd expected, Harry had disappeared without a trace. After the Killing Curse hit.

Snape seemed to think that he had done this on purpose, the way he was acting.

"It's madness," Shacklebolt agreed in his deep bass.

"What about spontaneous apparition?" Tonks asked suddenly.

"The wards were down when he disappeared," Remus said, as if this closed the matter. Snape scoffed from the background.

"Remus is right, of course," Dumbledore said quietly. The aged wizard seemed to be fighting an inner battle between hoping for the impossible and facing the facts. He turned to Harry's relatives. "We cannot rule out this possibility. Mrs. Dursley, has Harry ever apparated before?"

To judge by the blank look he received, he could as well have asked her if the eccentricity of an orbit was indeed proportional to the deviation from the perpendicular to the path of the center of mass.

"Has he ever disappeared and appeared somewhere else?" Dumbledore reformulated patiently.

"I would surely think not!" Vernon Dursley answered, blowing himself up with indignation. His wife's quiet voice, however, made him deflate considerably.

"There was this one time... he had to be taken down the roof of the school kitchens," she murmured sadly.

"He was _climbing around on the buildings,_ Petunia!" Vernon said pleadingly.

"So... Mr. Potter has _indeed_ apparated before." Snape made an exasperated little noise in the back of his throat.

Lupin sighed, throwing the quill he had been chewing on across the coffee table with rather more force than was necessary.

"This is getting us nowhere."

* * *

"Now what?" Dudley gritted out, huddled in the Invisibility Cloak as he sat on a stone by the boulders. The twilight was rapidly fading and the air had changed from bitter cold to bloody freezing.

Harry ignored him. He was sitting on the ground, leaning against the stone Dudley was sitting on, and rummaged in his pockets, a thoughtful look on his face. He drew a tiny package from his jeans and regarded the tag on it for a moment, smiling wistfully.

"Is that something to eat?"

"'Fraid not, Big D," the black-haired boy said almost cheerfully, although his voice was little more than a whisper. He sounded like he had a bad case of laryngitis. "This," Harry rasped, "is a tent."

Dudley stared. His batty cousin had lost it. The thing he had in his hand was smaller than a Mars bar, for crying out loud!

"A tent." He echoed blankly, but Harry had already untied the tag and lobbed the package some five feet from where they sat. He then drew his wand, and reread the tag. Dudley flinched as his skinny cousin cast a silvery beam of light on the grass ahead, and yelped as something began to grow there, like a giant muffin.

It was a tent.

Shaped like an igloo, and adopting all the hues of the scenery around it, it had only one drawback to it: It was too small. Harry would fit in there, if he curled up into a ball as small as he could. Dudley looked dubiously at Harry, who was stumbling towards the tent, his steps unsteady and shaky. He looked, in Dudley's eyes, like that bloke he had knocked out in two rounds the previous week.

"It's _tiny_," Dudley scoffed in annoyance anyway. "D'you honestly expect us _both_ to fit in there?"

"I think it'll be just fine," Harry rasped firmly, wincing as he crouched down to open the flap and stuck his head inside. He stopped for a moment, and then disappeared fully.

"C'mon in," Dudley heard his cousin call from within.

Dudley did not budge. "I told you it's too small—" he started irritably, but Harry cut him off.

"It's bigger on the inside, Dud..." He somehow managed to make his tone impatient and strangled at the same time.

"I'm not going in there!" Dudley declared firmly.

"Fine," came the raspy answer. Now the tone was faintly amused. "Stay there, Popkin, that way I'll have some peace. When the wolves come along, don't forget to give them my regards."

Dudley's next statement died on the way from his brain to his mouth, Harry's words sinking in. His inner voice was now saying something like: "_Wolves? _Wolves_! **Wolves**! AAAAAHHH!_"

Dudley decided it would be much safer in the tiny tent.

"How do you expect me to go there, eh? I can't walk, in case you forgot, you stupid freak," Dudley was fast reverting to his overly spoilt self. Or maybe he was just angry at being called Popkin.

Almost instantly, a wooden crutch shot from the inside of the tent like a javelin, missing Dudley's face by a half-inch, in the best display of blind aim the youngest Dursley had ever witnessed. It was both solution to his problem and reminder.

_You're in Harryland now, mate. Now play along, or else._

Not stopping to wonder how on earth Harry had gotten hold of a crutch, Dudley retrieved it and furiously made his way to the insufficient bit of shelter, wincing loudly at every step he took.

With more difficulty than he had thought, he went down on all fours – or threes, considering he couldn't set his bandaged leg on the stony ground – and stuck his head past the flap that made the door, a rude remark and a string of "I told you so's" at the ready.

He did not utter one word. Instead, his jaw dropped.

He was staring at a space that was decidedly larger than he had expected. It looked like— he had to be dreaming. That was the only possible explanation. Yes, he was having a nightmare, and not looking at the polished ebony floor of what looked like the entrance hall of an ancient manor.

Hell, there were coat pegs on the panelled walls and everything! He scanned the place for Harry, who was examining a trunk, oblivious to his cousin's shock. Dudley entered the tent fully, noticing the vaulted ceiling was over ten feet high, and there was no need for him to crawl.

"What _is_ this place?" Dudley breathed, awe and his educated instinct of fear at anything magical warring for control. He looked out of the door flap, just in case – and found a set of very solid-looking ebony doors instead.

"Tent, Dinky Dinkdums" Harry mumbled without interrupting his examination of the ornate trunk. Dudley could not overlook the expensive-looking, detailed woodwork, depicting a ferocious looking dog, a wolf, a stag, and a fleur-de-lis surrounding a familiar-looking bolt of lightning.

Harry gritted his teeth and squinted, straining his vision to focus on the labels that had been affixed on the panel of buttons that could be found on the inside of the lid, and which were becoming increasingly blurred. He blinked, trying to make out the letters, which seemed to him to rearrange themselves at will, moving suddenly so he could not read them.

He shook his head a little. It felt heavy and the rest of him felt clumsy and stupid. And cold.

_Iron Roof,_ he read. Couldn't hurt to have that, now could it? He pressed the button, and there was a metallic crackling overhead. Close behind him, Dudley gasped.

"What was _that_?"

"I thought you... wanted to stay outside with the wolves," Harry gritted out in response.

"What's that?" Dudley inquired, pointing at the golden buttons.

"I'm... trying to figure... it out, Dud." Harry managed. Everything was coming in and out of focus, and he felt shivery, as if he were going to be sick. He was grabbing the sides of the trunk for support now. "What's it say th-there?"

"Uh... _Silencing_ _Charm_," Dudley answered, furrowing his brow. Harry reached out and pressed the button, trying to remain alert. "What's—"

"And here?" Harry interrupted.

"Impertur—"

Harry pressed the button. His breath was coming heavy now, and he could feel a cold sweat break out.

"Here?" he demanded shakily. He felt as if he had battled a hundred dementors.

"Disillu—"

Another button pressed.

"H-here?"

"Uh... Approach Alarm."

He pressed the button.

_Safe_.

"H-Harry?"

"Ugh." He closed his eyes, unable to summon the energy to wonder what he was doing on the floor.

"You're blee—_Harry_?"

Dudley's high-pitched, panicked voice echoed eerily off the now solid ceiling.

There was no answer.

* * *

TBC. 


	10. Damage Assessment

**Disclaimer: Hmm... some people do seem to read the disclaimers. Well, if you have read the last nine of them, there's no need for me to waste my virtual breath repeating myself. You know that I'm not JKR, otherwise I'd be earning boatloads of cash out of this and you would most certainly not be able to read this fic on any site. It wouldn't be a fic, for that matter, nor an AU. And it's both, you do the maths.**

**The best part is: It's free of charge! You only have to review loads to keep me happy and not thinking about smoking!**

**P.S. I mean it. Review.**

* * *

**Chapter Ten - Damage Assessment**

"Harry! _Wake up_!"

Green eyes fluttered open, consciousness slowly returning as twin vices on his arms shook him like a rag doll.

It hurt.

"Gnmm...gnnoo..."

"Wake _up_!" the high-pitched, entirely too loud and panicky voice was still there, and he screwed his face against it. Tried, fruitlessly, to resist the painful shaking, to go back to the peaceful nothingness he'd been in.

If anything, the pain increased, sharp stabs of burning fires all over his chest, his arms, his head. He tried to make it stop, go back to sleep, where nothing hurt and silence reigned. Couldn't.

The shouting continued, now louder, with the addition of whimpering sobs, as did the increasingly harsh, convulsive shaking. This combination managed, at last, to irritate Harry into a very disgruntled, reluctant – and hopefully temporary – wakefulness.

He forced himself to focus his sight on whoever was shaking him, blinking slowly and with difficulty, as he tried to remember where he was and what he was doing on this unfamiliar floor, and whom that fat, round face belonged to.

"_Harry_!" Another shake.

Harry responded by squinting blearily at the blotchy, sweaty face of his cousin for the space of a breath, before he backed away from him with a movement that would have been qualified as a jerk if it hadn't come out as a feeble twitch. Images, sounds and smells came to him in a jumble. His eyes darted left and right, and his breath caught in his chest as the memories of past events replayed haphazardly in his head.

"Can you see me?" Dudley shook Harry once more, frantic in his efforts to return him to the waking world. Bloodshot eyes focused on Dudley for a moment, then Harry nodded, moving his head as little as possible.

"Yeah..." he breathed. After a pause, he added, "But I wish I couldn't." He closed his eyes again.

"Harry!" The grip on his arms did not relent, and he was shaken once again.

"What's it with you?" Harry tried to snap back, but he could as well have mouthed the words, if the pitiful whisper he managed was any indication.

"Are you awake? Can you hear me?" Dudley's face was shiny with sweat, and his anxious expression, along with his piggy, teary blue eyes, combined to give the most pathetic display of worry Harry had ever been forced to lay eyes on. He cut a grimace.

"_Gods_..." he groaned, turning his head away from Dudley, breathing heavily. He felt as if he would split in two at any given moment. A shaky, sob-like sound escaped him, and he blinked hard again, in an effort not to loose consciousness. His eyes caught the shine of silver lettering not an arm's length away.

_FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY, _the trunk read.

_Oh, yes. This is _definitely_ an emergency..._

Dudley's hands tightened around his arms, and Harry tried to glare up at him. It didn't work. If anything, he only managed to make his left eye begin to throb – altogether not a pleasant experience.

"You passed out!" Dudley exclaimed, still gripping Harry's arms convulsively.

_Oh, _really_? I hadn't noticed, you lardbum._ his mind's voice scoffed at the statement.

"What do you want?" Harry asked, annoyed. With a defeated sigh, he forced himself to assume a sitting position, wrenching himself from Dudley's grip. However tempting it was to simply let himself pass out again, he was aware that it would not help his current situation much. He winced, fumbling for his glasses.

"Y—you passed... out," Dudley stammered, his voice squeaky and trembling.

"So?" Harry retorted, scowling at the floor spinning around him, still looking for his glasses.

Dudley stared, slack-jawed, at his freak of a cousin, unable to believe his ears.

_So! SO? That's all he's going to say?_

Harry had abruptly slid to the floor some long moments earlier, the right side of his face wet with blood from his forehead. It had taken the Junior Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the North-and-South-East an additional moment to lower his gaze and find the many splotches of blood decorating Harry's old tee shirt, like the polka dots of his mum's favourite summer dress. Or, more accurately, like one of the extras in a random war flick.

Panic had set in sometime between the first and second shock, when all Harry did was let his eyes roll into the back of his head, no matter how hard Dudley shook him. And Dudley could shake _hard_.

Now he had finally managed to return him to the conscious world, Harry was suddenly in a rotten mood for being woken.

"What d'you _mean_, _'So?'_" Dudley echoed nonetheless, trying to sound menacing, yet unable to keep the frightened squeak from his voice.

"Forget it, Big D," Harry pushed the one-lensed spectacles up his nose with a roll of his eyes and feebly made to stand, and Dudley found himself steadying his former punching bag, awkwardly helping him to his feet.

"You're... Harry, you're bleeding—"

"What else is new?" Harry gritted out, taking a tentative step towards the trunk. He brought a hand to his face and brushed some of the still-flowing wetness away, making a last effort to focus his eyesight.

Wiping his hand on his trouser leg, he peered into the trunk again, rummaging around with trembling hands and sore arms for a few moments, finally withdrawing a wooden chest that had been labelled "_Magical First Aid_" in brightly glowing golden letters.

He wordlessly handed the box to Dudley, leaned against the wall of the entrance hall and slid down to a sitting position.

"I'm going to need your help here, Dud." Harry had brought up his knees and was supporting his aching head in his hands. The world was spinning around him, and his left eye was beating a quite unpleasant tattoo against his eyelid.

"Uh..." The youngest Dursley gave him a blank look that made him look more like a pig than usual.

"Just read the labels on the bottles," Harry mumbled tiredly, wincing at the feeling talking brought. He brought a hand to his face, finding a lump the size of what felt like a golf ball on his jaw.

_Sweet Merlin's **spleen**. This hurts,_ his mind's voice moaned. _Ow_.

Dudley stared stupidly at Harry for a few moments longer, before bringing himself to open the chest, seeing as his cousin seemed reluctant to move so much as an inch. The chest, which was made of a dark red wood, was filled with many bottles of different shapes and sizes that contained liquids of various colours.

"Stop gawping at them, and read the labels already," Harry gritted out, still steadying his head in his hands. He needed... What did he need? He'd never before tried to heal himself with potions – the incident at Privet Drive one week earlier didn't count, since he had rather limited options and had taken the potions at random anyway.

_We need a Healer, _his mind's voice supplied promptly, apparently much more awake than he felt. _A Healer would do nicely, thank you ever so very _raging_ much. I'll have one here and one to go, please. Payment by cash._ Harry snorted darkly at the thought. _Healer Express, at your fireplace in thirty seconds or your Galleons back. Heh._ _At the rate I'm going, I'd be a regular_.

Dudley gave him an uneasy sideways glance. Harry looked frightening: the side of his face that wasn't caked in blood in various stages of dryness was bright red and swollen, his eyes were bloodshot, and the mass of red contrasted sharply with the bright green of Harry's irises. Not to mention his jaw had developed a bruise that made it look as if he were trying to chew on a ping-pong ball.

"Read," Harry whispered tightly, closing his eyes. He swallowed with difficulty. "Please."

Dudley hesitated for a moment, before deciding that reading the labels on those freaky bottles would not hurt him in any way. He picked up a bright yellow vial.

"Er... Pain-No-More..."

Harry's bloodshot eyes snapped open, causing Dudley to give a start.

"Give me that one." He stretched a leaden arm to receive the vial, trying to keep his hand from shaking.

"Er..." Dudley gave him an apprehensive look.

"It's not going to make you sprout feelers or anything, Dud." Harry rasped, his patience rapidly thinning. For all his battered-looking self, he still managed to give Dudley a pointed glare that had him gibbering again. "_Just hand me the damned bottle_."

Trembling with dread, Dudley made himself reach out and place the bottle on the floor in front of Harry.

"Cheers," Harry said through clenched teeth, gesturing for Dudley to read on and uncorking the bottle with a wave of his fingers. Dudley found himself staring as two beakers flew from the chest with an additional flick of Harry's wrist. His cousin filled one beaker to the brim and downed its contents without further ado, visibly relaxing after a few moments. A strong smell of peppermint wafted out of the bottle as Harry poured Dudley a dose, but he did not press for him to drink up. Instead, he gave him another pointed look and a raised eyebrow, reminding him of his reading tasks.

"Uh... right. There's Gunmore's Gash Gelatin... Pepper-Up-Potion... Burn Betterment Bevvy... SkeleGro, SkeleFix, Bubotuber Blemish Remover, Skitter Stopper, InstaStookie... Scarring Solution... Essence of Pickled Murtlap..."

* * *

"So, what we _do_ know is that Potter managed to single-handedly incapacitate five Death Eaters and trap them in a solid chunk of... ah... _ground_—"

"Swamp," McGonagall corrected in her brisk tone.

"Swamp," Shacklebolt amended with a nod. "Besides that, we know that he was hit by the Killing Curse but did not die, that he had most of his things with him and yet carried no bag, and that he managed to apparate away, with his muggle cousin and without leaving a sliver of magic to trace him by, if I may add, without knowing how to apparate, am I correct?" Shacklebolt's deep voice gave away his scepticism as he summed up the main points of the riddle posed by Potter.

"So it would seem," Lupin murmured slowly, frowning thoughtfully at the dinner table.

"And you do not believe this is utter madness?" Shacklebolt gave Lupin a pointed look.

"That I do not." Lupin's eyes met Shacklebolt's steadily.

"Lupin, _come on_. I understand you do not want to believe Potter is dead, but you need to face the facts. He disappeared _after_ the Killing Curse hit him square in the face. How would you explain that point?"

"Harry's survival? Blood magic," Lupin said offhandedly, the frown still on his face. "He was with his cousin when it happened."

"Oh, and what of Potter's things, then?" Shacklebolt inquired in a tone of forced calm. "He left only his first year books and cauldron behind—" the Auror cut himself off as Dumbledore, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, raised a hand.

"I think I might be able to answer that question," the wizened wizard said quietly, pulling a sheet of white parchment from his pocket. "Although by this, I fear that there shall be more questions posed than answers given."

There was an expectant silence as the Order members assembled there took turns reading Sirius' letter, only broken by the occasional muttered comments.

"How _dare_ he... Percy, _adopted_?" Molly whispered angrily, being one of the last to receive the parchment. "Oh, so he _did_ help them get that dreadful shop in Diagon Alley..." For all her muttering, she looked like she had developed a head cold by the time she passed the letter to her eldest son.

Bill actually snorted as he read the offending passages, earning himself a reproachful look from his mother. He shrugged helplessly at her. Although it was left unsaid, most wizards and witches present shared Sirius' view on the Weasleys' third son.

"So we couldn't organise a piss in a brewery?" Shacklebolt muttered, shaking his head ruefully. "I couldn't have put it better myself," he added in a low voice, checking his watch. Over two hours had passed since Potter had vanished into thin air, and still they had no clue as to where to _start_ searching.

"It seems he left a lot unsaid," Arthur stated neutrally as he finished reading, handing the letter to Lupin.

"Maybe not all that much," Moody growled. "Potter would have understood a great deal more, particularly since he had the 'case' in his hands, whatever that is."

Lupin received the parchment again, feeling it with his hands like a blind man would.

"What have you done this time, Sirius?" McGonagall murmured. Then, louder, she asked, "What is a Phoenix Scroll? And, for that matter, the case the letter speaks of?" All eyes were on Lupin now, who gave the letter a last glance before looking up.

"The Phoenix Scroll was an invention of Sirius' and James', or, more accurately, a project of theirs," he said, smiling reminiscently. "They were worried about the trouble they had communicating whenever they were apart, for Harry's safety, I presume. In any case, they never got around to make it work – all they achieved was to get the parchment to light on fire when the first letter was read..."

"Can you please explain yourself, Lupin?" Snape hissed through clenched teeth.

"Yes, sorry." Lupin fingered the parchment once more. "A Phoenix Scroll was supposed to be a letter concealed within a letter. Anyone could read the nonsense written on the first, a normal-looking piece of parchment, but, if the reader was indeed the intended recipient of the letter, it would light on fire to reveal the real message, like a phoenix on a Burning Day. This would turn the interception of owls irrelevant, since all one had to do was send the message twice or thrice at the same time."

"Brilliant," McGonagall whispered, allowing herself a small, wistful smile. For all the trouble they had caused at school, upon joining the Order, James Potter and Sirius Black had always been bursting with ideas, and never been afraid to test their theories, no matter how impossible they sounded. They had been intelligent, frightfully so. She shook her head slightly, remembering the many urgent owls she had received, mostly in the middle of the night, with question upon question about Transfiguration processes so advanced, she had sometimes been at a loss as to what they referred to. Trust Potter and Black to continue giving them sleepless nights after they died.

"However, before James and Lily were killed, they had only managed to charm the letters to burn up whenever the information was read – It seems that Sirius finally managed to make it work, though." Lupin finished his account.

"What of the case?" Tonks asked next. "Sirius says here he included several items for battle purposes, mostly for concealment and defence."

Lupin shrugged, tapping his nose and rereading the letter.

"He never told me anything about it," he said in a low voice. "But then, he did not tell anyone much of anything... those last few months."

There was another, much more thoughtful silence. Lupin bit his lip. Once it had been decided, after Arthur Weasley had been taken to St. Mungo's, that Harry would not receive any information that Voldemort could potentially pick up on, Sirius had gone ballistic.

Lupin had been given the task to convince his hot-headed friend to listen to reason, and failed miserably; after a heated argument that ended with Sirius transforming into a dog and refusing to turn back for three days, Sirius had taken a vow of silence of sorts that lasted for the whole month of January. To say things between the long-time friends were tense, would have been the understatement of the year. Sirius insisted Harry needed not only Occlumency, but also guidance, and that by refusing him any sort of information, the Order was playing straight into Voldemort's hands—and he was proven right, of course.

At a dreadful cost.

"After Fred and George came to Headquarters," Molly Weasley said, her lips pursed, as she always did whenever she was faced with something she did not approve of, "Sirius spent a lot of time around them." Lupin nodded.

"True. Whatever he was working on, he found a way to pass it on to Harry, probably with the Twins' help," he said.

"I'll call them," Arthur offered at once. "They're most likely still in that shop of theirs."

"I'll come along, dad," Bill stood up. As the two left, a silence remained as the Order members stared at the letter on the dinner table.

"Do you think he might have found a way to cancel the Killing—" Tonks started suddenly, as an idea surfaced on her mind.

"Don't be foolish. Black couldn't _possibly_ have managed to find a way to repel the Killing Curse," Snape interrupted furiously.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Remus murmured, remembering a project Sirius, James, and Lily had gotten underway some time before Black Lodge was burnt. "Although I don't believe he did. I think he merely provided Harry with some gadgets."

"A portkey, perhaps?" Moody, who had been pacing up and down the dining room, slumped down on a nearby chair and took a swig from his hip flask.

"To where?" Lupin shook his head. "If Sirius had given Harry a portkey, Harry would have been taken to three possible places: Here, Headquarters, or Hogwarts, and Harry has shown up in neither."

"We know Sirius wasn't... the sanest of men," Molly said hesitantly. "Maybe he just forgot—"

"Sirius might have been slightly nuts," Remus said firmly, "But he was neither stupid nor did he ignore the danger Harry is in. In fact," he added, "I doubt that anyone understood Harry's situation better than he did."

"But Azkaban—"

"Azkaban embittered him, yes. But it did not take his sanity. For all his foolhardiness, Sirius knew Harry best of us all. Yes Molly – even better than you or Ron or Hermione. Whatever he sent Harry in this case might have saved his life, and we ought to remember that." Lupin's voice was tight with remorse. "I think, this once, we should bear his advice in mind."

"Come off it, Lupin," Snape said angrily. "Black was completely insane. Who would listen to that madman?"

"Harry listened to him," Lupin said quietly. "He did not once doubt Sirius' advice. He never had any reason not to trust him blindly."

Snape scoffed in exasperation.

"And, for that matter, neither did we." Lupin heaved a great sigh, closing his eyes briefly. "Yet we did not listen to him when we had a chance." He pointed at the letter. "Harry, however, still does."

* * *

"Drink up, Dud." Harry prodded, sounding rather impatient. He was thirsty, and wondered, for what felt like the hundredth time since he had started prodding, why he didn't just leave Dudley sitting there in the hall and went to explore the tent.

Dudley shook his head resolutely, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

Harry snorted and shook his head. Never before had he witnessed Dudley refuse anything to eat or drink, and it was a comical sight. Well, it would be if he could manage to fix his glasses, which were still rather bent and lacked one lens. He took them off and picked up his wand.

"_Reparo_," he said, watching the frame straighten itself a little and the remaining cracks in the glass disappear. One lens was missing still, and he didn't know how to solve this part of his problem.

_I need to start working on conjuring spells,_ he thought, scowling at his glasses before he replaced them on his nose, closing the eye that lacked a lens. _Either that, or I need to get myself a second pair of glasses._

Harry still sat with his back against the stone wall of the entrance hall, but his countenance had visibly changed; he was no longer shivering, the cold sweat was already drying on his back, and the bleeding on his head and chest was gradually stopping. The world was still the familiar colourful blur it always was whenever he took off his glasses, but at least it had stopped spinning, and his head did not feel as heavy as it had a bit earlier.

He felt much better after taking handsome doses of a series of potions, and had learned a few things over the past few minutes. For example, he now knew that the SkeleFix tasted quite as bad as the SkeleGro did, it was every bit as unpleasant when it started to have an effect, but the ensuing stinging sensation was rather more manageable. He had also found out that the combination of the Alertness Ale with the Blood Clotting Bevvy and the Pain-No-More washed away the taste of the SkeleFix rather effectively, not to mention that the resulting mix tasted pleasantly of grape juice and also dissipated the coldness inside much better than the Pepper-Up Potion he had just washed down.

The only thing left to fix was the sudden longing for water that had taken a hold of him after taking the last potion.

Well, that, and the molar he'd lost. Harry explored the cavity in his mouth with his tongue, which gave him a curious expression as he looked encouragingly at Dudley, for whom he had served a cocktail of Pain-No-More, SkeleFix, and a bit of Calming Draught.

Dudley looked back at Harry, whose ears were smoking, with dread. There was no chance in hell he would follow Harry's example. He had witnessed Harry turn blue, green, even red in the past few minutes; no, he wouldn't risk it.

"I'm—I'm not drinking any of those!" Dudley squeezed out, pointing accusatorily at Harry. "Y—you're trying to... to _poison_ me!"

Harry raised a faintly amused eyebrow.

"If I wanted to kill you, Popkin," he said in a low, yet carrying whisper, "I would not have _bothered_ with poison. I'd turn you into a slug and then I'd step on you." He smiled at the horrified expression on his cousin's face. "Speaking of which..." he added as an afterthought, drawing his wand. Dudley recoiled with a frightened squeak, his face changing colours faster even than Uncle Vernon's.

"You would _not_!" he breathed, aghast.

"I'll give you a plaster," Harry explained shortly, tapping the bandage he had previously applied and muttering, "_ferula gypsum_" under his breath. The bandage on Dudley's leg glowed bright white for a moment. Harry watched the glow disappear, leaving a stark white, solid cast in its wake. He tapped his fingers against it, testing how the spell had come out, and bit back a smirk at Dudley's frightened reaction.

"Drink up." Harry rasped, pushing the beaker towards the shell-shocked Dudley with what meant to be a friendly smile but must have looked quite sinister, to judge by the way Dudley was trembling. "Go on," Harry prodded. "Drink up. These are to fix your leg."

Dudley eyed the glass container with mistrust. Well, Harry looked much better, didn't he? He didn't look like he would pass out soon at any rate, and the bleeding on his head had stopped. Dudley had seen the colourful liquids swirling red, yellow and pink in the glass served from the same bottles Harry had drunk... He hesitated. His knee gave a throb, and he made up his mind.

Shutting his eyes tightly and going against the core principle of his interaction with anything that had to do with the 'M' word (namely, 'Never, EVER drink or eat anything offered by those freaks'), he upended the beaker in one motion.

He had hardly swallowed when he choked. A burning sensation spread in his throat, making his eyes water. Those things tasted horrible!

Harry watched Dudley splutter and cough childishly, a smirk on his face. The Alertness Ale was working wonders for him already, and his surroundings finally caught his attention. Looking around him, Harry quickly came to the conclusion that he would be indebted to the Weasley Twins for life. They had really outdone themselves this time around.

The hall he was in looked both grand and homely, what with the wooden black floor, panelled walls, and arched ceiling. There were two suits of armour in the corners at the far end, and sets of carved ebony double doors to the left and right, under equally elegant archways, which held torches on either side that provided a warm, flickering light.

"How can you _drink_ that stuff?" Dudley moaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I've often wondered, Dud," Harry answered absently, scrambling to his feet with a groan. He wanted to see the rest of the place, and his experience with wizarding camping equipment told him there were more comfortable places to spend their time in instead of the bare floor of the entrance hall.

He was parched. Without waiting any longer for Dudley, he made his way to the right of the hall, where the double doors opened into a kitchen with a table that could comfortably seat ten people. Harry felt a genuine grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The tent was really a masterpiece of spellwork. His one lensed eye wandered around the room, until it fixed itself on the ornate tap by the sink.

_Water!_

Dudley peered in after his cousin, his eyes popping at the amazing sight. He had thought the empty chamber was something noteworthy, yes, but _this_ was absolutely...

_Unbelievable_.

Dudley had thought the hall they'd been in was the whole tent – clearly, he had been wrong.

Forgetting his previous apprehension, he got to his feet and hobbled in after Harry, using the wooden crutch for support. The cast on his leg clunked at every step, and he had to grudgingly admit he felt much better already.

Dudley gaped at the room, then at Harry, who was perusing the contents of the pantry, a silver goblet in his hand. His cousin did not show any kind of amazement at the sight of the old-fashioned kitchen, or the fact that this _tent_ had a kitchen table that would not have been out of place in Buckingham Palace.

Instead, Harry drained his goblet and refilled it from the tap, resuming his greedy drinking as soon as it was filled.

"_Wow_," Dudley said, his watery eyes about as wide as they could go as they roamed across the place. "There's a stove and everything!"

Harry shrugged, now halfway through his third gobletful of water.

"Feeling better, Diddy?" he asked in his raspy voice. Dudley scowled and huffily stared back at him, making him bite back a grin. The Dursley Policy on Freaky Magic was not something that could be ignored just like so, and he knew that Dudley would need much more than a bit of healing potion to admit that something magical was less than terrifying. Not that Harry cared what Dudley thought on the matter, either. As far as he was concerned, his cousin could continue to fear magic in any of its forms, he didn't mind. It made him easier to taunt and scare.

"I'm hungry." Dudley said flatly, sounding much more like his usual self, and glaring at the counter, which had been fitted in the same dark wood as the remainder of the tent.

"Figures," Harry muttered with amusement, refilling his goblet.

"Is there any food here?" Dudley asked next, regarding one of the leather armchairs that made the kitchen seats with mistrust before gingerly sitting down on it, as if he expected the chair to run away from under him. Which, incidentally, did not happen.

Given the identity of the makers, Harry was more than inclined to agree with his cousin. He wouldn't put it past the Weasley Twins to booby-trap every square inch of the tent. In fact, now he thought about it, the lack of pranks so far _was_ rather disconcerting...

"I'm starving."

"There are a few things in the pantry," Harry told Dudley, waving his wand and causing a package to float towards the table. He sank down on another of the chairs and opened it, revealing a fresh-looking shepherd's pie with a side of baked potatoes.

Dudley instinctively shrank back from the floating package, but leaned forward with undisguised interest as its contents were uncovered. His eyes never leaving the food, he shook his head in honest bewilderment.

"_Fervefacio_," Harry muttered the heating charm, and in a blink, the pie was steaming. He summoned a plate and a goblet, which he pushed towards Dudley. "There you are, Dud."

He did not have to tell him twice. Dudley shook off his shock rather faster than Harry had expected and tucked in with gusto, apparently having sent all his misgivings about obviously magical food flying.

Harry wasn't hungry, however. He drank another gobletful of water and regarded the dark table, a thoughtful expression on his face. His weariness had faded now the Alertness Ale had kicked in, and the restlessness that usually plagued him made itself known. He approached the window overlooking the boulders they had sat at earlier. Looking out the large window onto the wasteland around, he felt something tighten around his chest. The sun had set some time earlier, and the moon, two-thirds towards its full, was rising to the left of the boulders, bathing the wide, open landscape in a silvery light.

He had been very lucky to have survived the last attack; he didn't know where he was, but he was fairly certain he'd managed to apparate them both away before the Killing Curse hit. Now he had to find a way to return to Surrey before the Death Eaters found them. The fact that the Order might be looking for him did not even cross his mind.

Reminding himself that they were safe, he shunted the feeling of uneasiness into the back of his head, deciding that he could explore the tent before letting his mind run amuck. Maybe even take a shower.

Yes, that sounded about right, he mused, passing a filthy hand over his grimy face. Turning around, he noticed two doors at the other end of the room.

* * *

"When you came to see him, did he tell you of Sirius' letter?" Dumbledore asked Moody, who gave a raspy laugh.

"No. He didn't tell me anything. He was sitting here, calm as you please, reading up on advanced offensive hexes. He received his mail, and simply read on."

Shacklebolt, Figg and Dung all had similar reports on their visits to Privet Drive. Harry had not spoken to any of them unless it was absolutely necessary, and nothing they did or said had sufficed to change this attitude. Harry had shown himself indifferent to their visits, and, although he had never been openly rude to them, he had made it quite clear he was less than content with the arrangements.

He had toed every rule set down for his safety, and seemed to have put up with the routine because he knew what was at stake, but he had not, as had been expected, warmed up any more to the Order members assigned to visit him than he would have to an ice cube.

Dumbledore sighed heavily.

"It seems I keep making mistakes with him," he murmured.

His defeated musings were cut short, however, as the main door opened to reveal a hectic-looking pair of red-headed twins.

"What happened?" Fred asked, fairly storming into the living room, his green dragonhide jacket reflecting the electrical light overhead.

"Why didn't you call us?" George followed Fred at the same quick pace, looking as pale and anxious as his brother.

"Is it true Harry's gone?"

Dumbledore raised a silencing hand, but was largely ignored. The twins were looking at Lupin for answers, not at him.

"Bill told us he's not dead, Professor, but—"

In a few short sentences, Lupin explained the main points of their current situation. They listened without interrupting him once, and seemed to accept the news about Harry not being dead without any protest. When they heard about Harry's chosen method to disarm the Death Eaters, Fred actually grinned with something like satisfaction.

"He _froze_ the swamp? I'd never have thought of doing that," he said appreciatively, nudging his brother, who chuckled.

"I'd like to have seen it," George agreed, ignoring the pointed glare his mother levelled at him. "He's getting good, isn't he?"

"Yes, well, now he's disappeared, and all we have is this..." Lupin seemed to bite back a smile as he handed the twins Sirius' letter.

"Damn right he was about Per—" George muttered, earning himself an elbow to the ribs from his brother, who couldn't seem to stop smirking. Their eyes flew over the parchment, and both their smiles faded to be replaced by expressions of concern.

"Merlin, he asked about his..." George murmured.

"Well?" McGonagall asked briskly when all the twins did was look at the end part of the parchment.

"Harry must have felt horrible when he read this," Fred said in a low voice.

"Yeah," George agreed, rereading the letter. "He keeps blaming himself for stuff—this must not have helped much, eh?"

"Will you two tell us what you're talking about already?" Molly snapped impatiently, causing her sons to look at her with a start. "Don't you give me those looks, you two. It says there you and Sirius were in it together. _Now what did you do this time?_"

"We didn't know the letter was a Phoenix Scroll," Fred said grimly. "Sirius must have written it sometime before the Department of Mysteries. Otherwise we wouldn't have sent it with the package."

"What package?" Moody barked, and there was a startled whimper in the background. Petunia and Vernon Dursley were still there, sitting on a sofa, forgotten by the Order.

The twins gave each other a look and then Fred spoke.

"Sirius asked us to help him develop a series of... items he believed would help Harry if he got himself into another mess," he said carefully.

"Which he did, by the way," George added unnecessarily.

"He put us through our paces, Sirius did. He had some wicked ideas, mind—"

"Yeah, I don't think we learned half as much during all those years at Hogwarts as we did during the past four months."

"The Warning Wedges work a treat, too—"

"That, and the Animagus Potions..."

"...The Whispering Notepad is nothing short of amazing, and the Shopping Spree Satchel—"

"Would you two care to explain yourselves?" McGonagall snapped, beating Molly to it by a split second.

"Er, yes, sorry." Another glance was exchanged between the twins. "We helped him make a series of items, as Fred was saying, which would help Harry out of a mess or two. They were mostly Sirius' idea, really."

"There's a case mentioned here," Shacklebolt said shortly. "What about it?"

Fred began worrying his lower lip and shook his head almost ruefully.

"Can't tell you, sorry."

"_What_?"

"Sorry." George brought up his hands in defence. "Wizard's Oath."

"DO YOU TWO REALISE HARRY COULD BE DYING THIS VERY MOMENT? HOW STUPID CAN YOU GET THAT YOU DON'T TELL US WHAT IT IS YOU GAVE HIM?"

"_Mum_—"

"We _can't_—"

"We _swore_ not to tell—"

"YOU TWO ARE THE MOST IRRESPONSIBLE—STUPID—" Molly rang for air, and the twins took the chance to speak as soon as it presented itself.

"But we can tell you about other things he's got," Fred said quickly, eyeing his enraged dragon of a mother warily. "We swore about the case, nothing more."

"WELL? GET ON WITH IT!"

* * *

Harry left Dudley to pig out in the kitchen, and opened a door to the far right. It led to a dining room.

"Wh- where are you going!" Dudley called at once.

"What, are you _scared_, Popkin?" Harry couldn't keep the annoyance from his voice this time as he turned to glare at his cousin.

"Shut your f—" Dudley started angrily, but choked on his mouthful as he saw the glinting glare levelled at him. He shrank back against his chair. "Sorry, sorry..."

Growling, Harry stepped out of the kitchen, closing the door behind him with a scowl that turned into a lopsided grin as soon as his back was turned. Some things did not change.

He looked at the dining room before him. A _splendid_ dining room, at that, complete with two tall windows with dark crimson and gold curtains and a rather large fireplace. To his left, there was a door underneath a stone archway that led to another room so wide Harry needed a second take to identify it properly.

The living room, for that was what it looked like, was huge. Harry found it had a quite homely feel to it, despite the size, and entered it, closing his left eye to take in his surroundings a little better. It was almost half as big as the Gryffindor Common Room at Hogwarts, and had been outfitted with two fireplaces so big he could easily stand in them. There was an assortment of squashy armchairs and sofas, coffee tables and stools that could seat some twenty-odd people without being crowded, and there were a few games stacked on a tall bookshelf in one of the corners. Stepping on a wine-coloured rug, Harry took a seat in one of the armchairs.

It was comfortable, to say the least, a piece of furniture made to relax in. It simply called for taking a book and spending an afternoon reading. Harry's eye – the one he could more or less see with – wandered over the soft, dark red fabric, and from there to the remainder of the furniture, which was an assortment of equally comfortable, yet purposefully mismatched pieces, some covered in leather of varying shades, some in fabrics of dark reds and browns. The living room had, despite its elegance, a feel to it that made Harry feel at home. He could somehow picture a boisterous party taking place there, as well as a quiet game of wizard's chess, or, for some odd reason, a formal meeting; the only other place he had ever been in that had the same feeling to it was the Gryffindor Common Room, but it was not half as regal as this one.

The Weasley Twins surely knew their stuff.

To his left, he could see the kitchen door and the dining room he had just left, while a little further to the right, an arched corridor led to another area. The panelled wall section between the two fireplaces had been decorated with a large hanging tapestry that depicted a woodland landscape on which a few birds were flying. To the right of the fireplaces, there were two archways, one of which had been fitted with another set of double doors.

Amazing.

Harry's attention was caught by the tapestry, where the flock of birds was flying closer, as he caught some movement; a ferocious-looking, purple rhinoceros with three horns stomped past, followed closely by a very life-like panther that seemed to be stalking it.

The hunting scene developed before his eyes, as if he were looking at a quilted television screen; he smiled. The room had a certain air to it that made him feel as if he had lived here all his life, despite his arrival mere moments earlier. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that evoked this homeliness in him, but there it was. He felt calm, safe, protected—and it was only the conscious knowledge that he _should not_ feel that way, which allowed him to realise that the feeling of being 'home' was there at all, so subtle did it come to him.

Still, berating himself about being more alert and grim did not work, the feeling of contentment taking up most of his will with it, and he allowed himself to feel at home, at ease, protected.

Because he was.

Safe.

He just _knew_ it; whatever it was the Weasley Twins had done, it was working. Not to mention the handsome doses of healing potions he had gulped down like water earlier that were fully active. For starters, the pains and aches of his body had been reduced to a mere shadow of hurt, which did not impede his movements or thoughts at all, and his head did not feel like a balloon about to burst, either.

He was well aware of what had happened earlier at the play park, however. They had been lucky, yes, extraordinarily so. Or more specifically, _he_ had been lucky. Again. Apparating away like that, a split second before the Killing Curse hit. Lestrange would go bonkers over that one, if she had managed to escape the Order, that was.

Harry's smile widened. He'd managed to single-handedly fight seven Death Eaters, save Dudley, and live to tell the tale. He'd also managed to heal his injuries, and he was completely hidden away from the rest of the world in this, erm, _tiny_ tent. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to be too bothered about being in the middle of Merlin knew where at the moment. He felt just like he had a couple of years earlier, after he'd faced the Hungarian Horntail at the Triwizard Tournament.

He could allow himself some gloating and shameless smugness, couldn't he?

He got to his feet once more and took a stroll around the tent, which turned out to be a bit of a walk. He started out from the living room and took the way to the right, taking a moment to peer into the chamber behind the doors at the far end.

He found there was a study there, and the beginning of a library – he decided to explore that part later on. Taking the arched hallway that started next to the entrance to the study, Harry saw a set of double doors to the left and a stone hall to the right, which held two sets of doors facing each other.

The hallway he was in turned out to be some sort of main corridor, which linked all the different rooms in a circle around a central chamber. There were white stone pillars on either side of the hallway, and here and there, he saw statues or the occasional suit of armour, a few tapestries which seemed to be a continuation of the one in the living room – the erumpent and the panther were still prowling around – as well as several sets of doors.

After a while of wandering, Harry had found two large chambers that shared an entrance hall bigger than his usual bedroom, a large corner room that had the highest ceiling and seemed to be filled with colourful things he didn't recognise – he was slightly put out at not being able to see much of anything, even despite his one-eyed squinting –, four smaller bedrooms, a high-ceilinged, long and dark chamber which he had been unable to take in properly, and now stood at the end of the hallway, facing a last set of doors straight ahead, and an arched corridor to his left. He peered into the room ahead, which was another sitting room or parlour that predictably led, through another set of doors, to the entrance hall he and Dudley had been in earlier.

Retracing his steps, he took the vaulted corridor, which linked the living room with the wide hallway, and stopped at the only set of doors he could see. Opening them, he entered a bathroom that could easily compete with the prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts in its grandeur.

There was a longish chamber at the entrance, which led to a bathing area to the left and a loo straight ahead, both separated from the main chamber through the now familiar type of heavy black doors. The chamber itself stretched to the right, where Harry made out what seemed like a towel rack.

"Wow," he whispered softly, "as soon as I get back to Privet Drive I'm setting this thing up and I'm never coming out again."

"My, my, aren't we looking beat up?" a loud voice called, making Harry jump and spin around, his wand drawn towards the intruder. There was an appreciative chuckle from the far end of the chamber, but all Harry could see was a round stone basin supported by a pillar in the shape of a lion's head and a single claw, probably the twins' version of a sink.

"You're getting better, mate – excellent reflexes." The voice sounded amused. Harry squinted in the direction of the sound, but there was no-one there. There was nothing there apart from the sink and towel rack— hang on. He took a few cautious steps towards the voice, his left eye shut while his right darted around every corner of the room he could see.

"Who're—" Harry began, as loudly as his constricted throat would allow, but the voice interrupted him.

"Long time no see, mate – where've you been?" it asked cheerfully. "I take it you've seen better days, but who am I to judge?"

A mirror.

It was. Just a mirror, right over the round stone basin.

Harry lowered his wand, taking a deep, steadying breath and leaning against the sink. His heart was drumming madly against his chest, and his knees felt rather weak. It was just a mirror.

_Paranoia, anyone?_

"Merlin's hairy wart, you look even worse from up close," the mirror commented.

Harry gave a defeated chuckle. Apparently the Weasley Twins had managed to take a hold of a more sardonic item than the snappish one in the Burrow.

Looking up once more, he couldn't but agree with the mirror; his reflection showed his left eye was very bloodshot and rather swollen, his jaw looked quite bruised, and the right side of his face was covered liberally in dried blood that came from a nasty cut right above his eyebrow... wait, no. That was his scar.

Somehow it had cracked open. Harry traced a finger along the closing wound in disbelief.

_When did that happen?_

"So, what happened to you? Get hit by a Bludger?" the mirror commented lightly, distracting him from his shock.

"No." Harry said shortly, not in the mood for chatting with a piece of furniture. He frowned at the sorry state of his face, his previous giddiness reluctantly giving way to a more critical state of mind. He took off his glasses, letting them fall into the basin with a clatter, and peered closer at his reflection, jumping back with a start as the outline of a round, smiling face appeared on the surface.

"Fall off your broom again, then?" the mirror asked next, in the same light tone it had been using so far.

Harry rolled his eyes. The mirror gave a little laugh and went on guessing, undeterred.

"Fall off a rooftop? Off some stairs? Fall off anything at all?"

"No." Harry rasped, nettled. He took off his large tee shirt and tossed it on the floor.

"Whoa, mate—and I thought your _face_ looked bad," the mirror said conversationally.

"Shut it, you." Harry regarded his chest with a scowl on his face, dismissing the idea of a shower at the sight of the many half-closed cuts and bruises decorating it.

"Testy, aren't we?" The mirror sounded like it was trying hard not to laugh. "Blimey, you do look like you've been trampled by a hippogriff," it said knowledgeably. "They tend to leave such marks – what happened, forget to bow?"

"_No_." Harry gritted out, deciding it might be better just to have a quick wash. He turned the tap, regulated the jet of water issuing from the spout – shaped like a lion's head – and started to rinse the blood off his hands.

"Right, _of course_... the soap is right here, to your right," the mirror said, and a yellow arrow appeared next to its face, pointing at a bar of soap.

"Thanks." Harry reached for it and lathered up his face.

"That's what I'm here for," the mirror replied. After a moment of thought, it added, "Sirius convinced you to play Creaothceann without a helmet again, didn't he? It's happened before, after all."

Harry froze.

"Wh—_what_?" he breathed, aghast.

"What's wrong with your voice? Did you get hit by a screaming jinx?"

"N-no..."

"No?" the mirror said with a chuckle, oblivious to Harry's reaction "Perhaps... yes, I've got it! You two were duelling again, weren't you, James?"

The bar of soap fell to the floor as Harry clutched it convulsively, feeling his insides turn to ice.

The mirror thought he was his father.

"Cat got your tongue?" it asked next, sounding like it was holding back a laugh, no doubt at Harry's stricken face.

"I'm not James," he whispered, nonplussed, staring at the polished surface of the mirror.

There was a pause, during which the silvery outline of the face seemed to be analysing his every feature.

"Dragon's scales, you're right—I'd forgotten! _Harry_!" the mirror exclaimed after a moment. "Merlin, you're all grown up!"

Harry swallowed, his face dripping with soap and grime.

"Y-you knew my dad?"

"I... yes, I did. Sorry, I tend to get mixed up a little. They never thought they had to give me such a long memory, so I've become rather forgetful." The tone of the mirror was apologetic.

"Who...?" Harry started to ask, the odd constricting sensation rising up in him again, as if a hand were clutching at his chest.

"Your dad and Sirius charmed me. I was their mirror when they were at school," came the prompt reply. "Originally, I was to cover up for them whenever they snuck out at night, snoring and the like, but as time went on, they decided it would be better if I had a little more of a mind of my own, so I could make up different excuses for them. You should rinse that off, mate."

Harry gave himself a shake and continued washing, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

"Then they left school and the new first years were scared of me, I think. So I was sent to James, and he kept me. He took me everywhere—"

"Everywhere?" Harry echoed blankly.

"Your mum and dad moved no less than thirteen times, you know."

"I didn't know that." Harry swallowed.

"Now you do." The mirror paused for a moment, during which Harry processed the new information he was hearing.

The mirror had been his father's... he felt an odd sensation creeping up in him, as he examined every inch of the silvery surface he could see. Somehow, this knowledge made a mixture of feelings rise up in him; part of him felt happy and warm, while another was rather sad. It was actually confusing.

"So, I take it you didn't get those during Quidditch practice," the mirror said shrewdly, smirking at him.

"If you must know, I had a spot of a fight with a handful of Death Eaters," Harry answered grimly, drying his face with a soft towel and peering at his reflection once more. His scar was half closed, red and raw.

"Death Eaters, you say? Don't you think that's getting a bit old?" the mirror inquired thoughtfully.

"You have no idea."

"How'd they get you?" the mirror asked next.

"Ambush." Harry said shortly. "They had my cousin."

"And there I was, thinking I'd seen it all."

"Obviously, you haven't."

"No need to get all snappish there, mate," the mirror answered. "I was just wondering..."

"Don't," Harry advised, picking up the soap and his tee shirt.

"You're not going to wear that filthy old rag again, are you?"

"It's not like I have any more clothes with me," Harry answered, nettled. As much as he wanted to bring himself to like his dad's old mirror, he found it too.. cheery.

"Try the wardrobe, why don't you, once you've cleaned up a bit."

"The wardrobe." Harry echoed blankly. He hadn't seen anything of the sort.

"Yeah, to get rid of those things you're wearing. I wouldn't go as far as calling them clothes, though – you look like a house-elf on the dole." At this point, a bright red arrow appeared, pointing at a pair of doors Harry had missed completely. "Right there, to your left," the mirror went on, "you can dump the lot in the blue basket – it'll clean them right up, although I'd recommend just binning them." Ignoring the surprised look on Harry's face, it carried on. "Of course, you should shower first – and rub a bit of... _this_ on those cuts."

It swung forward, revealing a cabinet of sorts, which contained a vast inventory of grooming items, and a large jar of Gunmore's Gash Gelatin in pride of place.

"See how helpful I can be?"

"Yeah..." Harry took the jar of Gunmore's Gash Gelatin and made his way to the wardrobe, completely bewildered.

Inside, there were a few freshly-laundered outfits, underwear and socks. Harry decided that maybe he did want to take that shower after all.

_When I get back to the Dursleys', I'm **definitely** setting this tent up and never coming out again_, Harry decided moments later as he stepped under the self-adjusting spray of the shower and allowed a magical sponge to gently clean him up. _Most definitely_. A slow smile spread across his face.

He would remain indebted to the twins for the rest of his natural life, which would be much happier if he did not have to worry about leaving the tent ever again.

The shower was over too soon for his liking, and he towelled off carefully, covering what felt like his entire upper body with the cool jelly, which gave off a faint scent of raspberries. He felt a tingling sensation for a few moments, and when he looked down on himself, he noticed the cuts were mended, and only a few bruises remained. He raised an eyebrow.

"Wicked," Harry murmured, reaching for the pile of clothes he'd taken from the wardrobe. He had chosen a set of black cargo trousers and a dark grey jumper, which looked too big for him, but would have to do. As he tried them on for size, however, the clothes shrank until they fit him comfortably.

"_Wow_," he breathed, a disbelieving smile on his face.

"There are shoes in there as well, you know," the mirror said, as Harry was about to stick his foot in one of Dudley's old trainers.

"Er—right," Harry muttered, earning himself an amused chuckle from the mirror. He returned to the wardrobe, and picked himself a pair of tall black dragonhide boots that looked both comfortable and like they'd fit him.

"Much better, I think," the mirror said appreciatively as Harry adjusted the bootstraps and threw on the black robes that completed his outfit, to examine his reflection in it. Harry couldn't help but agree. He felt much more refreshed and alert now, and his mood had lifted considerably.

Still...

He regarded himself thoughtfully in the mirror. His hair had grown since he last had given himself a good look, and, perhaps it was a trick of the light, but his eyes seemed shadowed, sunken, bloodshot as they were. A twinge of guilt made his insides clench.

"I look like..." he trailed off, his whisper dying before the name was uttered.

"Like you should," the mirror said in a final tone of voice. "You only need your glasses," it added as an afterthought, and swung open to reveal the cabinet once more. In the very spot the jar of healing ointment had been, lay a pair of spectacles, wire-rimmed as his previous pair, but much better fitting.

Harry took them and placed them gratefully on his nose, blinking a few times as the lenses adjusted themselves to his needs.

"How'd you _do_ that?" he asked, now grinning outright.

"Sirius usually forgets something or other whenever he's about to take a shower," the mirror replied, "so he charmed the cabinet to summon whatever it is he needs. Saves a lot of time. Speaking of the devil, I haven't seen him for ages, how's he doing?"

Harry's grin faded, the words of the mirror sinking in.

It wasn't the Twins who had made the tent.

So _this_ was what Sirius had had in mind when he said he'd found a way to avoid detection. Harry swallowed again, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Is he here?" the mirror asked once more, clearly excited about the prospect of talking with its maker. Harry slowly shook his head, feeling like he'd just been slapped in the face. For a moment, he just stared at the mirror, unable to find the words he needed to say.

"Sirius..." Harry whispered, choking on the words as the invisible hand squeezing his chest took hold of his heart. "Sirius won't be coming," he said in a small voice, looking away from the silvery face. It was hard to tell anyone of Sirius' death, even an inanimate object with a mind of its own.

The mirror fell silent.

"So it happened." It said softly. "It happened at last."

Harry nodded, blinking back a tear. He swallowed again, guilt and remorse writhing and twisting his burning stomach into knots.

"That... that changes things a bit," the mirror went on after a moment, its voice deepening a little, becoming more gruff. "I take it you are hiding, then?"

"Sorry?" Harry looked up, and saw the face of the mirror had two silvery streaks on it.

He had never seen a mirror cry.

"Sirius told me it would happen at some point," the mirror said quietly. "He said... you would come when you were in trouble and I was to help you if you came without him."

"He _knew_ he was going to die?" Harry blurted out before he could help himself.

"Don't be so naïve," the mirror said, in the same quiet tone. "James... Sirius, Remus, Lily... they all grew up fighting in a war. They were well aware that... _this_ could happen at any given moment. They knew it _would_, sooner or later." It regarded Harry gravely for a long moment. "They simply prepared for it as best as they could."

* * *

"It's not working, Minerva." Lupin's voice was quiet as he reached out to stay the hand of the Transfiguration Teacher, as she was about to cast the same spell for the third time on the last remaining shard of glass from Harry's spectacles. All other pieces had been obliterated by the many spells cast on them, and they needed that one piece, should they manage to find a spell that promised better results.

"_I know that_." McGonagall snapped angrily. At once, she gave Lupin an apologetic look, sighing in something akin to despair, but lowering her wand nonetheless.

"What now? That was the most powerful Tracking Charm we know." Molly Weasley's voice was trembling, and she looked close to tears at the uselessness of their efforts so far.

"So, wherever Harry is, he can't be detected by magic," Arabella Figg said redundantly. She had come to help the Order keep the Dursleys calm, and had successfully managed to slip them both some potion that put an end to the gibbering that had issued from Vernon's mouth for the past half hour.

"Do you think You-Know-Who can sense him?" McGonagall asked abruptly.

"Beats me." Lupin ran a hand through his hair, his nose nearly level with the map of Britain they were using to pinpoint the possible locations Harry could have apparated to.

"Well, we have searched in London, Surrey, Hogsmeade and St. Mungo's. Where else could we look?" Arthur Weasley asked tiredly. He and Moody had spent the last hour apparating from one likely place to another, with results only comparable to McGonagall's failed attempts to track Harry down.

After the Weasley Twins had given their report, everything had become a flurry of activity. They had made a list of the magical things Harry had been given, bar the contents of the case. For the most part, the items were pranking material, and the twins had voiced their doubts as to how exactly some of them worked. They had been certain, however, that there was no portkey amongst the things Harry now carried, and, since Snape had insisted the Death Eaters did not know where Harry was either, the spontaneous apparition theory had become their last resort.

"Bill and the twins are still near the Burrow, aren't they?" Molly asked.

"Yes, and Kingsley and Tonks are in Diagon Alley."

"Maybe he's over at the 'Nest," Dung muttered, but Lupin shook his head.

"He can only have apparated to places he knows, remember that."

"Then add Knockturn Alley to the list. Harry got there once by mistake." Arthur rested his head wearily on the back of a chair. His head was throbbing, but he could not rest. Not when Harry could be found by the Death Eaters first.

"What if someone found him and took him to the 'Nest?" Dung insisted, referring to the underground pub where magical crooks usually assembled.

"You go there, then, and find out. Go to Knockturn Alley first, though."

"Hagrid is searching the Forbidden Forest as we speak." Dumbledore had returned from a comprehensive search of the area surrounding Hogwarts, as empty-handed as the rest of them, even as Dung hurried out the door, his muggle overcoat dragging on the floor.

"Try Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters next, and... Maybe the Shrieking Shack? There are no anti-apparition wards around it," Lupin told Arthur, who nodded and followed Dung outside. Moody had not even bothered to enter the house.

"Any luck, Remus?" Dumbledore asked in a low voice. Lupin shook his head.

"We need another map. This one is rather scorched already."

* * *

"Where've you been?" Dudley asked upon seeing Harry step into the kitchen through the entrance hall door. He hadn't moved from his seat since Harry had left, probably too frightened to leave. Or too busy stuffing his face, if the assortment of empty plates was any indication.

"Took a shower," Harry rasped heavily, slumping down on one of the dark leather armchairs and burying his head in his hands.

"A _shower_?" Dudley echoed incredulously. "You people do like to camp out in style, don't you?"

"I s'pose..." Harry's sole camping experience had taken place two years earlier, during the Quidditch World Cup, and he had witnessed some of the most bizarre camping trends there.

"Oy, where did you get that freaky coat?" Dudley asked, having finally deigned himself to look at his skinny cousin properly. Harry was barely recognisable. Dressed entirely in black, with an outfit that would not have gone amiss amongst the members of a SWAT team, and wearing angular glasses instead of the geeky round ones his mum had chosen, the only thing that gave his identity away was the stark red scar jutting out above his right eyebrow.

"It's not a coat. These are robes." Harry muttered flatly, his voice every bit as raspy as before.

"Looks girly." Dudley commented, scooping up a bit of leftover gravy from the dish that once had contained a shepherd's pie and sticking it in his mouth with relish.

Harry didn't answer, his attention focused on the window, or more specifically, what lay beyond it.

He looked down at his hands. His chat with the mirror – by the name of _Tingly_, of all things – had reminded him of his present, less than enviable situation. Apparently the tent was Untrackable as well as Unplottable, or so Sirius had claimed it to be. They were safe, Tingly said, as long as the Disillusionment, Imperturbable, Iron Roof, Approach Alarm and Bludger Hail spells had been activated, which would render the tent virtually non-existent, or so Sirius had said.

Harry had then hurried out of the bathroom to press the remaining buttons on the trunk's lid, his insides churning with something worse than guilt and stronger than grief, a feeling that dispelled every last sliver of the wholesomeness of safety he'd been revelling in mere moments earlier.

The knowledge that the tent was made by Sirius so as to be able to spend a while with him, tucked away from prying eyes, brought the helpless, frustrated feelings of remorse back home stronger than he had ever thought possible. He forced his thoughts away from the tender subject.

There was no time to wallow.

He needed to get them both back to Surrey, and soon.

He decided it would be best to travel at night, on his Firebolt, using the cover of clouds and hopefully arrive at Privet Drive by daybreak, before the Death Eaters found them.

Well, he needed to find out _where_ he had to get back _from_ first, and then find a way to avoid being seen until they were back at the Dursleys'.

"You lot do eat well," Dudley said, patting his bloated belly with one of his bear-like hands and giving a hearty belch, his piggy face flushed, out of the exertion involved out of eating the whole pie, no doubt.

"What time is it?" Harry said by way of a reply. If he wanted to use the shelter of the night, they would have to leave as soon as possible.

"Half past ten," Dudley answered with a yawn.

"I think we ought to try and return to Surrey," Harry rasped, more to himself than to his cousin.

"Aren't your freaky friends coming to get us?" Dudley said aloud, making Harry look up at him, unsure if he had heard properly. At Harry's blank look, Dudley rolled his eyes.

"I said, aren't your weirdo friends—"

"I heard you the first time." Harry regarded his cousin for a moment. It was odd to hear Dudley talk about magical folk so... naturally. Then he remembered. The Calming Draught must have worked.

"Well, are they?"

"I don't know, Dud." Harry's tone was dark. "I think we should try and get back on our own."

"What, _now_?"

"When would you like to leave, then?" Harry snapped, suddenly angry, rapping his fingers on the table as he turned his back on Dudley and stepped towards the kitchen window. "The Death Eaters might be looking for us as we speak. Would you like to stay put until they find us?"

"The... Death...?" Dudley echoed blankly.

"Eaters._ Death Eaters_," Harry said impatiently, glaring at the cluster of rocks outside, barely visible in the thick fog that now covered the landscape around them. "The ones who attacked you in the play park, remember?"

"Th-they... eat _death_?" Something about Dudley's clueless tone made Harry's lips curl into a grim, cheerless smile. He rolled his eyes.

"Would you like to find out?" he asked, surprised at the sudden lightness of his tone.

"But—"

"But _what_, Dudley?"

"It's just... I don't feel so well..."

"Well you did just eat a pie meant for _four_, you moron." Harry turned to glare at Dudley. He didn't like what he saw at all.

Dudley's face was flushed still, and sweaty. His fat arms wobbled as he trembled slightly, and his eyes looked rather more watery than usual.

_A bloody fever. Just what I need._

A soft touch to Dudley's cheek provided the necessary confirmation. It was usual for a fever to follow a fracture, as Harry had experienced firsthand, but now, when he had a plan half-formed in his mind and was anxious to get underway, it was most unwelcome.

"Was it s-some of your m-m-magic stuff?" Dudley asked in a small, frightened voice, looking at Harry almost beseechingly.

"No... I guess it was everything else that happened," Harry replied quietly, forgetting his anger for a moment and throwing his head back to stare at the vaulted grey ceiling of the kitchen. When he spoke, it was in a tone of forced calm. "There's nothing for it, Dud—we'll have to stay here until it's over. You can't possibly travel like this." He waved his wand at his cousin, who didn't even flinch. "_Mobilicorpus_."

* * *

"This is just—_bollocks_." Harry's voice was tight with anger. At his rotten luck, at Dudley's fever, at the world in general.

After administering Dudley a double dose of Fever-Away, he had dumped him in one of the bedrooms and watched him sleep deeply while he proceeded to curse every single deity he had ever heard of.

Not that it helped his situation any, but at least he was able to vent some of his frustration at the current state of affairs.

He had retreated to the living room, lit a fire, and upended his Emergency Escape Kit, with the intention to rearrange its contents. As the avalanche of things tumbled out of the dragonhide case, he saw the old Sneakoscope Ron had given him before his third year. Placing it carefully on the coffee table, Harry set to organise his things and his thoughts.

It was nearly midnight when he finished, and his eyes were beginning to itch with tiredness. So far, there had been no indication of movement outside the tent, and the only sound to be heard was Dudley's occasional snore. The silence weighed heavily on him, as if he had been covered with a heavy quilt and left to slowly suffocate.

"Holding up, are you?" a voice said from somewhere overhead. In a flash, Harry's wand was in his hand, pointed at the source of the noise, a hex ready on his lips.

"_Stupef_—" Harry said, cutting himself off as he saw a silvery outline on a highly polished helmet, which had been placed on a tall shelf.

"Whoa, whoa... easy on the mirror," the shrewd voice of Tingly, the mirror, resounded once more.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," Harry muttered, lowering his wand.

"And you shouldn't be so jumpy," Tingly replied easily. "The protection charms are all up, and the Approach Alarm hasn't gone off."

"Right." Harry replied, pocketing his EEK and slumping back on his armchair with a heavy sigh. Try as he might, this logic refused to sink in. "How come you can move around?" he asked after a while.

"Sirius charmed me to," was the simple answer. "I am the watcher, you see."

Harry glanced at the beaming face on the helmet, fairly certain that, if he could, Tingly would have been drawing his silvery self up in pride.

"The watcher?" Harry asked, more out of having a source of distraction than anything else.

"_Your_ watcher," Tingly replied smugly. "Lily gave me the task when you were born, and charmed me to keep an eye on you."

"You were my babysitter." Harry couldn't hold back a little disbelieving laugh.

"Watcher. There's a world of difference," Tingly said shortly. "I _still am_ your watcher. Sirius set me to it when he made this place."

"Sounds a lot like babysitting to me."

"Well, it's not," Tingly huffed.

"I see."

"You do not, but it's not my fault."

"You still haven't told me how come you can move around," Harry reminded him.

"Sirius did that as well. He said it was too quiet in here, and sometimes he fancied a chat without having to go to the loo," Tingly said with a chuckle. "Besides, a watcher cannot be confined to the bathroom—couldn't do my duty otherwise."

Harry fell silent and stared into the fire, feeling a lump rise in his throat again.

"Care to get a tour of your new... er, haunts?"

"Yeah, why not." Harry abruptly got to his feet and followed the silvery arrows Tingly left for him, casting a last glance out the window and seeing nothing but thick fog. He'd have to sit it out here until dawn, so he figured it wouldn't hurt to explore the tent more thoroughly.

Now he could see properly once more, his eyes picked up a series of details he had completely missed before. For example, the carvings on the doors showed a dog, a wolf, a stag and a fleur-de-lis surrounding a lightning bolt. Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and Lily. And they moved. Harry could not help gazing at the playful antics of the carved Padfoot, who followed him along the panelled walls, wagging his tail and trying to jump at him.

Not that all doors were the same; Tingly led him to a library and study, which had a small depiction of the Monster Book of Monsters on the double doors, which snapped at the handle, and a corner room that turned out to be the games room – Harry could now see all the colourful trinkets stacked there were, in fact, board games, a pool table, and a rack full of Quidditch things – had a door with what seemed like a Quidditch match going on.

Tingly led him through every room, chatting merrily about what the different chambers contained and their uses. Apart from the library, play room and guest bedrooms Harry had seen, there was a long, high-ceilinged duelling chamber with a stairway into a basement room, which seemed to be used for both potion-making and as a storage room of sorts, a series of hidden passages – "To save time in an emergency," Tingly commented lightly –, as well as two main bed chambers which shared an entrance parlour, in which very life-like statues of a griffin and, rather unsurprisingly, a hippogriff, were moving about, ruffling their feathers.

"You don't need to bow," Tingly said, chuckling as Harry was about to do so. "Your rooms are to the left, Harry."

His rooms, all four of them, were the most comfortable-looking chambers he had ever set foot in, hands down. In fact, the whole tent was unlike anything he remembered ever seeing, and yet he couldn't shake off a certain sense of familiarity.

It wasn't the elegance of the furniture, or even the gothic archways and stone statues that made it feel familiar, yet he felt like he had been there before. Even the air smelled familiar. It seemed to impregnated with a faint, elusive scent he could not place, hovering at the edge of his conscious thoughts, and yet so much a part of the environment that, should any other smell be present, it would feel... _wrong_.

As Tingly ended the tour of the tent, Harry wore an expression that betrayed his mixed feelings. He knew he ought to feel glad for the present Sirius had taken so many pains to make, yet every single inch of the tent reminded him that he would never be able to share a moment with his godfather again. The lump now seemed to have lodged itself forever in his throat.

"Thus ends the tour, mate," Tingly said from a mirror in the corner as Harry sat on his soft four-poster bed. "You really ought to get some sleep."

"Yeah... cheers, Tingly," Harry said without much conviction.

"And you should do something to fix that voice of yours."

"Uh-huh."

The silver face disappeared, leaving Harry to his own devices.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore heaved a sigh, taking off his half-moon spectacles and casting a cleaning charm on them before replacing them on his crooked nose.

The witches and wizards gathered around him in the Dursley living room were exhausted, and so was he. The clock on the mantelpiece indicated the beginning of the ungodly hours of the morning, and still they did not have the slightest idea as to where to start looking, now that the obvious possibilities had been tackled and all members that had formed the search parties had either sent word of their fruitless results or returned.

Severus Snape had left some time earlier, to help the Death Eaters with a "situation", but he had sent a message that it had "nothing to do with Potter", which offered only minimal reassurance. While they were debating as to what Harry's current whereabouts were, Voldemort and his followers were actively pursuing their goals.

For the headmaster, the priorities were clear. Harry Potter was their only hope to defeat the dark, and everything else had to wait. It _had_ to, even if he knew it _would_ not wait; the world would not stop at their request, but there was little else they could do—if lives were lost tonight, tomorrow... it would be a sacrifice he was willing to make. He would let it happen, he _was letting it happen now_, so that Harry was found and brought back.

Trouble was, the earth could have swallowed him for all they knew. Nowhere had they found so much as a trace of the boy or his cousin, and, although Hedwig was nowhere to be found and they only assumed she had followed him, Harry had not sent a message.

Dumbledore thought of sending him an owl, perhaps...

_Why not?_

"If Hedwig has followed Harry, then maybe Fawkes can help," Dumbledore said abruptly.

Lupin raised his head, fully alert. He had been resting it in his arms, and the headmaster thought he had fallen asleep.

"Of course," Lupin whispered, his eyes alight with new hope. Why hadn't they thought of it before? "So simple..."

Moments later, in a flash of fire that did not even elicit a start from the equally exhausted Dursleys, Fawkes disappeared from Privet Drive.

"What now?" Fred asked, slumping next to Lupin on a sofa, handing him a cup of hot tea.

"We wait." Lupin said quietly, taking a sip and looking out the window, where the first signs of dawn could be seen.

"Do you think Fawkes will find him?" Fred asked.

"If anyone can find Harry, it's a phoenix," Lupin said with calm certainty. "They're powerfully magical animals, and their magic works differently from ours." He regarded George, who was just entering the room, thoughtfully for a few moments. "So, a Wizard's Oath, eh?"

"Yeah. He wouldn't let us in the secret otherwise." George's tone was apologetic.

"Sorry." Fred looked down at his knees.

"Don't be," Lupin waved a hand dismissively. "Sirius must have had his reasons. Besides... I wouldn't wish the Curse of the Eunuch on my worst enemy." He smiled mildly.

"How'd you—_hang on_, how'd you know?" Fred stared, wide-eyed, at his former professor, receiving a knowing smile in return.

"It's all part of the Marauder's Oath, boys."

"We thought it was... some sort of joke..." George said, all colour draining from his face.

"Knowing Sirius, I doubt it." Lupin's tone was so certain it was scary.

"Yeah..." Fred said after a moment. Sirius had been adamant on not revealing the contents of the Emergency Escape Kit to anyone, out of fear a spy could make use of this information. Betrayal, he had told the twins, was something that you let happen once.

"I still wonder how he came up with that." George wondered aloud.

"Oh, it wasn't him." Lupin said pleasantly. "The Marauder's Oath – and the standard punishment for traitors – were James' idea."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. It was a favourite pastime of theirs, thinking out bizarre, complicated spells like that. The Curse of the Eunuch was one of their preferred threats."

"But... does it... you know, actually _work_?"

"Tell me what was in the case and find out." Came the pleasant reply.

"No way!" the twins chorused, scandalised.

"I thought so. What was the exact wording Sirius used?"

"Erm... something of... well, our... _bits_... falling off and turning into dust so fine that it would seem they'd dissolved into thin air..." Fred mumbled, turning bright red in the face.

Lupin actually gave a hearty laugh at this.

"Oh, he got good," he chuckled. "Don't worry, I shall not press you to test if the curse works. I wouldn't risk it myself."

"Did you also take the Marauder's Oath?"

"More times than I can remember. Didn't you ever wonder why it was that I never told anyone about Sirius' Animagus form in your fifth year?"

"Oh."

"Yeah," Lupin's smile widened. "The Marauder's Oath can only be broken if the one involved in the secret chooses to spill the beans to protect another under the oath, and in the case of their Animagus forms, both James and Sirius took extra care." He paused, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Somewhere out there, a certain rat will have great trouble having children..."

"But doesn't that mean that... you know... Sirius... He told Dumbledore about Pettigrew's..."

"What if Sirius told Dumbledore?" Lupin's eyes were glinting, and a wide grin spread across his face. "You don't think he and James were so thick as to subject themselves to such a potentially harmful punishment, do you?"

* * *

He couldn't sleep, although his eyes were itching with tiredness. Unable as he was to so much as sit still in his regal bedroom, Harry doused the fire he had lit and made his way back to the living room.

His watch informed him, quite unhelpfully, that it was past three in the morning.

Harry gave himself yet another shake and punched the armrest of his armchair in exasperation. Something felt wrong, like there was something he needed to do but had forgotten about it. Chalking it up to his overall uneasiness did not help at all.

_Get a grip on yourself, Potter,_ he chided himself. _You're safe as can be, stop fretting!_

If Sirius was able to endure twelve years in Azkaban, surrounded by Dementors, he could surely last for twenty-four hours in the middle of nowhere, couldn't he?

Couldn't he?

Abruptly, he got to his feet, in an attempt to shake off the uneasiness and expectation that had taken a hold on him. Keeping his eyes and ears peeled for any sort of indication from the Approach Alarm and the Sneakoscope, he paced up and down the room, trying to calm down.

Surprisingly enough, it worked.

There was that elusive smell in the air, which wafted every now and then to his nose, bringing thoughts of laughter and wellness to his mind... almost making him remember... something. While he stood in the living room, trying to remember when he had felt so content, he noticed he didn't feel anxious anymore.

This realisation, in turn, took the almost-there memory clean out of his mind. His jaw set, and he made his way to the kitchen, resolving to have a Butterbeer, at least.

He was positively exhausted, the Alertness Ale having worn off some time earlier. He took a long swig from his butterbeer, ignoring the remains of Dudley's prolonged dinner – the plates and a pitcher of water littered the table still – and gazing at the whitish fog swirling outside. Ever so slowly, his eyes drooped, and he let them.

Then he realised what was bothering him.

_My scar._

Harry sat bolt upright again, all sense of weariness forgotten. His scar.

It was not hurting.

It wasn't even prickling.

This realisation sent alarm bells off in his head.

_Fear! Fire! Foes!_

The one constant in his life since the previous summer, Harry had grown accustomed to ignoring the pain in his scar, and the flashes of Voldemort's moods that came with it. What did this mean?

At some point, during the mad duel with the Death Eaters, his scar had burst open, but it had not bothered him any more than a regular cut would.

Shouldn't his scar be throbbing in anticipation for the results of the Death Eaters' latest raid? Shouldn't it be stinging with Voldemort's fury at their failure to kill, maim, or otherwise incapacitate him?

Instead, there was nothing except a little twinge here and there whenever he touched it. Nothing.

_It _should_ be hurting,_ Harry's confused inner voice said. _The rotten bastard should be furious because you gave him the slip, and he should be casting Unforgivables left and right in a rage._

This was completely unnerving.

Harry was hopeless at Occlumency, otherwise he might have thought he was blocking Voldemort out successfully for the first time in his life. No; something else must have happened, but what?

Wild thoughts succeeded themselves in his head, tumbling haphazardly in his mind as he felt his heart race in his throat.

Voldemort slipped in the bathtub and broke his neck; he died of a lethal stroke, he couldn't have had a heart attack, seeing as he didn't have a heart, did he? Maybe the rotten bastard was asleep, impossible as this notion came to Harry, or maybe he... maybe he had apparated Harry here to finish him off himself?

_Fear! Foes!_ _Fire! _His mind continued to scream, running in circles in a panicked frenzy.

_He would have done it by now._

His wildly screaming mind's voice skidded to a halt.

They had been here for half the night; there was no chance Voldemort was near. If there was something Voldemort had learned, it was that Harry had to die before he could make one of his escapes, and he would likely not sit calmly outside for hours, waiting for Harry to decide to come out.

There simply had to be another explanation for this.

_But what?_

Harry could not tell. Wide awake once more, he leapt to his feet and resumed his pacing, his wand drawn in a white-knuckled hold.

* * *

There was a flash of golden light, high in the overcast sky somewhere in the northernmost part of Scotland. The Phoenix flew in wide circles over a mountainous countryside bordered by thick woodlands, gracefully flying ever lower, its eyes searching as it announced its coming with its carrying song, eerie in the greying twilight preceding sunrise.

There was no answer to its call, no indication of human presence as far as it could see.

Undeterred, the phoenix swooped lower, its sharp eyes picking up a shape that did not belong to the wild landscape.

It circled the tiny fragment of bone for a moment, before diving sharply and retrieving it, taking it cautiously in its beak, as if it were made of crystal.

The sun was beginning to rise, bathing the world in blood red hues that made it look like it was on fire, when Fawkes gave a last cry and made his defeated way back to his master, in a flash of red flame.

* * *

TBC 


	11. Wasteland

**Disclaimer: Fan Fiction: noun. Used to describe the sort of fictional stories that are based around the original works of _another_ author. Duh.**

**Review loads to keep me happy!**

**Inverarray, the winged horses, the dream, the tapestry, Tingly, Remus' outburst and Harry's sarcasm ARE mine, though. Oh, and the funky rocky ground. That's mine too. Coolness.**

**Dedication: **It's been a while since I last dedicated a chapter to anyone, so this time it'll be to all you people who use a seatbelt when driving, and who do not engage in drunk speeding.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven – Wasteland**

_He spun around, flashing the other a wide grin. All around them, cotton wool clouds could be seen, the cold early morning wind whipping their faces and ruffling their hair._

_Was this fun or what?_

_The other came to a stop, hovering up and down in smooth motion, and looked down on the cluster of buildings their home had become, tiny to look at from this distance and nearly invisible in the twilight. Not even the charred remains of stable four were visible from here. Far to their left, past the thick forest of the mountainside they called Ruin Cairn, the closest town could be glimpsed, the rocky wasteland that stretched for over twenty miles from the sheltered mountainside they lived in bathed in a fog so thick they could not even make out the masts of the ships at the far harbour. That fog had been there for over a week, shrouding everything in white, even though it was summer._

_Not that they were interested in the scenery, really._

"_How high are we?" the other shouted, holding both reins with one hand._

"'_Bout a mile and a half!" he hollered back, laughing as his steed threw his head up and down in an energetic nod._

"_Are we high enough yet?" came the yelled demand, but to him it was almost a whisper. The wind was blowing stronger – and colder – the higher they flew, carrying their words away into the far beyond._

"_Let's give it another quarter," he shouted back, eyes glinting with the prospect of adventure. A second later, the other shot past him, dangerously close, in his usual display of precise ability, and he was caught in his tailwind. _

_His horse whinnied, flapping his ten-foot long wings in an attempt to steady himself and rearing up in the air. He smiled. The other would need much more than _that_ to unseat him._

"_C'mon, Aster! Go, go, go!" he yelled, steadying the course expertly and shooting upwards like a rocket._

"_Ready?" the other shouted moments later._

"_When you are," he replied, patting Aster on the neck, and receiving an impatient snort for a response. The other gave a nod, his eyes alight with excitement. "On the count of three, then." He brought up three fingers, to make his statement clear. _

"_One –" the other cried, and both got slowly to their feet on the saddles, holding the reins with one hand and measuring the upwards and downwards movement the silver-grey horses made with their wings._

_He turned to face the other, who gave him a lopsided grin. Clear eyes met clear eyes, glinting in the growing morning light._

"_Three!" he yelled, eliciting a startled "OY!" from the other. Lack in mathematical ability notwithstanding, both leapt off the saddles as one, headfirst, like divers off a ten-metre board, and shot to the ground, their arms pressed to the sides of their bodies for additional speed, eyes filling with tears as the gravitational forces pulled them ever faster towards the earth._

_The other threw three somersaults in quick succession, giving a loud "WOOOOOT!" of excitement._

_He chose to turn two somersaults forwards and then decided to carry on spinning, like a top, until it was time. The ground came ever closer, ever faster, and still they were not giving the call. _

"_Watch it!" the other yelled, giving the signal. Both steadied themselves in the whipping air, arms and legs spread to slow down their fall. It was a marginal decrease in speed, but enough to wait for their horses. _

_A whinny from his left made it to his ears, and he turned his head, to see he was now neck to neck with his horse. The winged horse's eye locked with his own, and they sped onwards to the ground._

_A half mile to go, he reached out with his arm to hook it around the steed's neck and rolled around it, using the humongous momentum to land on the saddle, but not ordering the steed to slow their fall until he spotted the other, who was already reining his own silver horse in._

"_Ready when you are, mate," he muttered into the chiselled ears, burying his face into the mane for a second as the horse spread its mighty wings, kicking out as they were taken upwards for a few score of feet with a great heave._

"_You went too far, you idiot!" the other shouted as he drew level with him. His tone was not angry, however. "If you wanted to go higher, you should have said so!"_

"_It wasn't that far," he called back, giving a helpless guffaw at the other's grimace. "Want to go once more?"_

"_Gramps will be out in a bit," the other said, shaking his head almost ruefully. "We'd better not risk it here – let's head back."_

"_Race you to Ruin Cairn, then!" _

"_On the count of –"_

"_Three!" he shouted, hugging the sides of his horse with his knees and causing it to rear up yet again. _

_They shot forward once more, twin blurs in their speed, until he heard the call of a goose far above him. Looking up, he saw a flock of birds on their way to the nearby loch._

"_Oy, look, dinner!" he shouted gleefully, and the race was forgotten. As if he could read his mind, his horse shot upwards with a mighty heave of his wings, effectively breaking up a perfect V formation of wild geese as they went. _

"_No, wait!" the other shouted urgently, stopping in midair to watch nonetheless, knowing his words would be either bounce off deaf ears or be carried away by the wind._

_He was flying up, up, almost vertical in his attempt to reach the geese. He was standing in the stirrups now, his head level with the horse's slanted ears—he saw his chance, freeing his feet from the stirrups in a flash and leaping sideways from its back for the second time. He stretched as far as he could with a yell—the startled goose had no time to react – how many flying humans can a bird crash into in its lifetime, after all? – and soon he was falling once more, his hand clenched around the poor bird's long neck, twisting in a practiced motion._

_Again he felt the exhilaration of the fall, eyes streaming against the gust of icy wind coming from Ruin Hill to his left, and almost hesitated to mount once more when the horse reached his side. _

_Almost._

_Once more his arm hooked around the horse's neck, and he had a glimpse of its chest and unmoving hooves before he was safely back in the saddle, the now limp goose dangling triumphantly from his right hand._

_Nearly a mile below, an old man looked skywards and spluttered in outrage. Drawing his long oaken wand, he pointed it at his throat and gritted out a furious, "Sonorus!"_

"_WHAT IN THE NINE PITS OF HELL ARE YOU DOING SO HIGH UP, YOU BLASTED HALFWIT!"_

_His blood ran cold, and his shout of triumph died in his throat._

"_Now you've done it!" the other shouted from below – had he really gone so far up? –, stopping his horse in midair and pointing at the tiny purple dot that was jumping up and down in a fury, clearly visible in the first rays of the sun._

_Cursing loudly at his luck, he manoeuvred the winged steed to fly downwards at the same breakneck speed he favoured, back towards the cluster of buildings of the only home he had ever known, scowling at the ear-bashing he would shortly receive. _

"_GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT, YOU TEN TIMES STUPID, FOOLISH **OAF**!"_

_Eight hundred yards... Seven hundred... He could feel the tingling of the wards he had unwittingly crossed now... Six hundred and fifty—_

Harry Potter woke with a start, glasses askew, heart drumming against his chest, breath coming in quick gasps, and feeling as if he had fallen from a great height.

Momentarily confused as to what he was doing sitting at an unfamiliar table, he blinked in the dim twilight of the kitchen, righting his glasses as the residue of the dream washed away.

What, exactly, was it with him and horses of late?

He couldn't provide an answer. Instead of pondering this matter, he got to his feet and stretched heavily. Trelawney, his Divination teacher, would surely find a way to turn this dream into some weird sort of death omen, though. He could easily picture her, wrapped in more shawls than he could count, her glasses magnifying her eyes so that she resembled a giant dragonfly as she predicted his untimely (and probably violent) death with all the drama of a seasoned soap opera star.

Shaking his head with a humourless snort, he drained the last of his butterbeer, cleared the table with a wave of his wand, and made his way to the large living room windows, which gave him the best lookout of all.

They had survived the night without a single disturbance.

Harry swallowed back the lump that seemed to have moved to reside perpetually near his Adam's apple, and concentrated on watching his surroundings for any sort of movement, much like he had done for most of the night.

Outside, the fog no longer impeded visibility, although it remained thickly hovering a foot or two above ground level, which gave Harry the sensation of being on an island surrounded by water. The darkness slowly gave way to a blue-tinged twilight, which gradually rendered the rocky landscape visible. A crow lazily circled the sky overhead, its wings spread wide as it let its cry echo loudly across the land. It was not a musical sound, yet Harry found it oddly fitting to the place.

Dawn broke, the sun gracing the barren land with a display of its finest colours, which made everything seem alive with them; a strong breeze swept over the foggy ground, allowing glimpses, here and there, of patches of grass; the crow continued to utter its harsh cries, as if in welcome of the warm sunlight that kissed the world, gently coaxing it into wakefulness.

And Harry Potter stood by the window, wand in hand and as unmoving as a statue, marvelling at the simple, ageless beauty of it all. Despite his life at Hogwarts, what with its far-reaching grounds and forest, he had never before been privy to such a dawning, to such wilderness and harmony.

To such boundless, unrestrained freedom.

Things just _were_ here, in this wilderness. The rocks ahead did not give a jot about Voldemort or Death Eaters or wars any more than the crow still circling the sky, that let its cry be carried away by the wind. They didn't care about him, or whether or not he liked them. They just... _were_. There was no judgement from the sky, or the clouds, the sunlight... No lies, no agendas, no remorse. Just a constant reminder that whatever happened, life would go on.

Somehow.

He found it strangely reassuring.

The sunlight advanced slowly, creeping through the windows of the tent until Harry could feel its warmth on his face. Maybe it was a consequence of being so high-strung for so long, but he could not remember the last time he had fully appreciated the sunlight. Peaceful quiet washed over him and he closed his eyes, savouring the glorious dawning with every fibre, his troubles and fears momentarily forgotten.

In the background, Dudley gave a loud snore, breaking the magic of the moment more effectively than a steamroller tearing down the hillside could have done and jolting Harry back to his present reality.

An expression of annoyance replaced the look of quiet contemplation on his face for a moment, before he turned away from the scene developing outside with a defeated sigh and made his way back to the kitchen, forcing himself to avoid shooting longing glances at the windows. It was really wishful thinking on his part, a glimpse of a world he, above all people, could not be part of. Even if it was the most desolate, barren wasteland he had ever clapped eyes on, he was not to be a part of it.

If anyone was pointedly _not_ free, that would be him.

He rubbed his forehead, more out of habit than anything else – his scar was still not even prickling – and tightened his hold on his wand.

As much as he wanted to be nonchalant on the matter, he had half-hoped the Order would catch up on his whereabouts and come to get him out of this fix. Which didn't happen, of course. Probably the Concealment Spells that were in place were the reason for both their current safety and the fact that the Order hadn't come. Or the Death Eaters. Or Hedwig, for that matter.

Harry had spent most of the night guarding the tent, looking out for the Order or the Death Eaters, but also for his owl. She was as smart as they came, and she had followed him to other places before, like during the summer after his second year, when he'd blown up Aunt Marge, or during the last summer, when she'd found Headquarters without a problem. Maybe the Order had detained her again. They'd done that sort of thing before, after all.

It _was_ pretty stupid, come to think of it – no owl, no messages, no help.

_No help._

What if the Death Eaters showed up? Could the tent withstand a full-scale attack? He doubted it, as much as he wished to believe it otherwise. And even if it did, what if they came with... with giants, for instance? Hagrid had been pelted with Stunning Hexes and simply shrugged them off, and he was only half a giant and positively _tiny_ for regular standards. A giant would squash his tent flat in a blink, Iron Roof Charm or not. What if they brought Dementors along? Dementors were not going to be fooled by the Concealment Spells, they couldn't even see!

_Yeah, and the Death Eaters could bring a couple of Manticores too, just so we have a complete set. Get a grip on yourself, Potter!_

With a shake of his head, he decided that, even if the Death Eaters should show up at his doorstep with a host of dementors and giants, a couple of Manticores and two or three dragons, no amount of his legendary luck would help him out. He'd just have to face whatever came to him.

_Best thing you've thought of so far, _the little voice in his head said appreciatively, even as his stomach made itself known. _No good fighting a 'host of Death Eaters, dementors, giants and manticores' on an empty stomach, though. We're hungry._

A quick breakfast and a handful of healing potions later, he returned to the living room, his Invisibility Cloak under his arm and a new plan taking shape in his mind. It would be the logical thing to do, wouldn't it? He needed to find out where it was he had landed them, after all.

He shook his head, trying to scrounge up some anger at this whole situation and failing dismally.

Everything was complicated wherever he was concerned, and fretting and raging about it would not get him anywhere. He had to find a way back on his own, or at least, to some place where he could call the Dursleys and wait for the Order to arrive. Either way, first he had to establish where in the name of Whatever-Accursed-Deity-That-Chose-To-Rule-His-Life they had ended up.

Taking out his untraceable wand, he rapped his head once, muttering, "_Disillusio_" under his breath. The sensation of having cracked an egg on top of his head told him he had gotten it right, but he nonetheless trotted to the bathroom to make sure.

"Good morning," Tingly said merrily as soon as he opened the door.

"Speak for yourself," Harry muttered in his raspy voice, striding up to the mirror and regarding his shifting reflection critically, making sure he had indeed become a magical chameleon and only declaring himself satisfied with his work when he confirmed that he could see the wardrobe right through himself.

"Going out, are we?" Tingly asked shrewdly, his silvery face rearranging itself into a grin.

"Does it show?" Harry said in the same tone, his throat feeling as if someone had scrubbed it with barbed wire.

"_Of course not_, mate."

"Good." Harry turned to leave.

"Have a nice trip, and tell the suits of armour to let you in when you return," Tingly called after him. "I set them to guard the doors."

"Er... thanks."

"Take care."

Harry did not leave the tent straight away. If he had learned one thing during the past year, particularly during this summer, it was that he had to be as prepared for anything as he could. Constant vigilance indeed.

His dragonhide case yielded a set of Self-Throwing Knives. Those found a way to his side pockets, as did his Omnioculars, which he fished out a moment later. The Emergency Escape Kit seemed to anticipate his every need, he noted.

It was past daybreak when he finished setting everything in order. He adjusted his dad's Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders, tied it securely to his neck, and took his Firebolt, which now sported the brass compass from his Broomstick Servicing Kit.

* * *

Silence reigned in number four, Privet Drive, for the first time in over twelve hours. This did by no means imply that the strange group that had settled in the house had left, however.

Presently, although it was the crack of dawn, over a dozen witches and wizards still remained within its walls, gathered around the dinner table and staring, motionless, at an object placed on top of it. This object was the cause of the tense quiet in the room. It was a small, whitish fragment, which would commonly have been found undeserving of such great attention; a broken-off tooth.

"What do you think?" Dumbledore asked in a low voice. They had expected to receive a note from Harry in return, but Fawkes had brought this back instead. Fawkes had returned with the letter they had sent Harry, untouched. What did it mean?

Of course, there had been volunteers to go with Fawkes, but it would have been foolish to send in any Order members to a trap prepared by Voldemort. The younger Weasleys, particularly the Twins, had been quite vocal on that count, as had Lupin, but the old headmaster would not have it. It was folly to send wizards and witches to their death in such a manner. If Harry had been taken captive, or, Merlin forbid, killed—well, then they would need every single wizard or witch they could spare.

"I think this could mean two things: Either Potter was unable to send a message and made do with this, or—" Shacklebolt cut himself off. There was no need to emphasize their greatest fear yet again.

"None of our tracking charms have worked, Kingsley," Tonks snapped, her eyes fixed at the fragment of tooth as if she could force it to provide the much-needed information with the power of her mind. Even she, the eternal optimist, could not help feeling frustrated over the turn of events.

Or, rather, the lack of progress in their search. With every passing hour, the possibility of Harry being alive was further reduced, even although there had as yet been no report of the Death Eaters finding him.

Harry had not been found by _any_ of them, none of their tracking charms had worked, and if Fawkes hadn't been able to bring him back, who could? Maybe Harry was so badly hurt he could not grab hold of the phoenix' tail – badly hurt, but not dead. And this was only plausible by blatantly ignoring the fact that, had Harry been hurt, Fawkes' tears would have him up and going in no time.

Tonks shivered slightly. She had never been one to indulge in self-delusion, and her hopes were rent asunder with every passing minute. If the most they could hope for was that Harry was too weak, too badly injured to hold Fawkes' feathers, there was no reason to try and keep hope alive. Everything pointed to the fact that Harry had indeed died and all Fawkes could bring back was a tooth—

"I'll go to Hogwarts," Lupin offered stiffly. His hopes had been shattered by Fawkes' find, and his previous composure was fading fast. He looked, Tonks decided, like she felt: forlorn and at a loss as to what to do. He was loosing faith.

"There _must_ be a spell that can trace him," Lupin explained upon seeing the questioning looks cast his way. "And the library at Hogwarts just might hold the answer."

"Remus, don't you think it'll be use—" Molly started gently, her voice tight with a grief they all felt.

"It's the only thing we can do!" Lupin shouted, causing everyone assembled to jump. "We cannot loose hope, you hear? Harry is alive, I know it!"

"Remus, I—"

"What else am I supposed to do?" Lupin's tone was desperate. "Give up on him? Arrange _another_ funeral?" He closed his eyes briefly, forcibly regaining his quiet manner. "No. All we need is—we need to see where he is..."

"That's an idea!" Fred exclaimed suddenly, turning at his former professor with wide eyes, his previous mulish expression gone.

Tonks' head shot up. Those words were the last she had expected to hear.

"What?" she asked, nonplussed.

George stared quizzically at his brother for a second. Then his eyes widened in realisation.

"D'you think it might work?" Fred gave a one-shouldered shrug in response.

"_What_?" Tonks asked again, now completely lost. To judge by the bewildered looks the twins were drawing from everyone else present, she was not the only one who didn't follow their train of thought. Instead of offering an explanation, Fred's next question was aimed at the headmaster.

"Professor Dumbledore, you have a pensieve, don't you?"

* * *

The double doors closed behind him and he turned around to see how the tent looked from the outside. An eyebrow quirked up. Instead of the igloo-shaped tent he had set up, he saw a boulder that could not be told apart from the remainder of the scenery.

_Sirius, you're a genius,_ he thought appreciatively at the sight. He'd have to mark the spot, otherwise he wouldn't be able to find his way back here.

He suppressed a shiver. After the comfortable warmth of the tent, the cold breeze that made his Invisibility Cloak billow around his feet made goosebumps rise up his arms and neck.

Pausing to listen for any sounds around him other than the scattered birdsong, he mounted his Firebolt and took off in a swirl of fog, as noiselessly as an owl.

He rose as high as he dared and turned a wide circle around the mark he had left before the tent, taking in the wild scenery. Keeping the sun to his right he looked northwards, slightly unnerved by the lack of noises. His senses almost painfully sharp, he saw some tall mountains, covered in thick woodland and looking for all the world like islands in this desolate part of the world.

The nearest peak caught his attention, and he found himself flying towards it before he caught himself. Drawing his Omnioculars from his pocket, he focused them as sharply as they would go and pressed them against his glasses.

Not quite knowing what to look for, he scanned the entire mountainside, but all he saw was a thick cluster of treetops... Clearly, the place was not inhabited. Still... he felt drawn to it, the desire to explore it growing by the minute.

_Just like back then, when I had those dreams about the Department of Mysteries..._

Wrenching his eyes from the mountain and reminding himself that it could well be another trap set by Voldemort, Harry resolutely turned his Omnioculars eastwards, and then, finding no signs of life there either, turned towards the west.

All he could see was an equally vast expanse, but this time it was the sea. He had only seen it once before, and back then he had not really had the opportunity to take in the sheer enormity of it. He focused his Omnioculars once more, marvelling at the dark blue mass, that went on, on, until it was lost in the horizon, where a low, dark rain cloud indicated a storm in the brewing...

A chill ran down his spine, and he suddenly felt small, too much in the open.

Afraid.

With a shudder, he turned away from the sea, a growing sense of urgency and unease taking hold of him as strongly as the peaceful dawning had not an hour earlier.

They really needed to get away from here, and soon.

He shuddered once more, but resumed his scanning of the southwards landscape, undeterred. If there were mountains north and east, a dark sea to the west, his only option was going south. He flew higher, until he was almost five hundred feet above the ground, pressing his Omnioculars so hard against his eyes that his glasses dug into the bridge of his nose.

He could only make out vast extensions of the same barren, rocky landscape, bathed in the same sort of thick fog, for miles ahead.

Then he saw it.

A signpost, with a faded and bent shield on it, the only sign of civilisation he had encountered so far.

_WELCOME TO INVERARRAY_, it read, along with the usual indications of which highway to take. There was a town close by. _13 Miles_, his Omnioculars informed as he twiddled the dials.

Heart drumming against his chest and hands almost numb with cold, Harry refocused his Omnioculars past the shield, trying to make out some shape of a building or other, but all he saw was the same thick, swirling fog.

A sudden, strong gust of wind blew his Invisibility Cloak up and caused it to flap against his back, but he didn't mind overmuch: the wind blew some of the fog apart, lightening it enough to let him make out a cluster of houses.

Without wasting another moment in the open, he flew towards the ground as fast as he dared, picked up the mark he had left to indicate the location of the tent, and sprinted inside.

The suits of armour that guarded the entrance hall leapt back with much clanging of their metallic joints, reassuming their positions before the double doors as soon as Harry had entered, blocking the entrance like wardens.

A few steadying breaths later, Harry managed to control his trembling hands enough to untie his Invisibility Cloak, deep in thought as to what the next step would be. He had never heard of Inverarray, and his knowledge of geography was limited to the greater cities of each region.

_So we're back where we started out from,_ he mused, leaning his Firebolt against the nearest wall. He was so absorbed in thought, that he almost overlooked the antics of one of the pegs on the wall, which was shaped like a very life-like stag and trying to catch his attention.

"What is it, you?" he muttered, giving a small chuckle as the stag stretched its antlers towards him, in an unmistakable gesture. Harry obligingly hung his Invisibility Cloak on them, and watched with mixed feelings as the stag trotted proudly towards the door, holding the cloak ready for him.

"Back already, are you?" Tingly's voice came from one of the cabinet panes over the counter as soon as Harry set foot in the kitchen.

"Yeah," Harry muttered neutrally, deciding he could use some food and fixing himself a cold chicken sandwich to go with his butterbeer.

"So? How did it go?"

"Well, we are indeed in the middle of nowhere," Harry replied, taking a bite of his sandwich and plopping down on the nearest chair. "Have you ever heard of a place called Inverarray?" he asked hoarsely in between munches.

"Inverarray?" Tingly echoed, a frown rippling the glass surface. "Sort of rings a bell... but no, I'm afraid I can't really remember where that is—sorry."

"You don't happen to know if there's a map in here, do you?" Harry prodded, undeterred.

"There should be one in the war room," Tingly provided helpfully. Upon seeing Harry's blank look, he added, "The library. I like to call it the war room, though. Gives it an extra spice to it, don't you agree?"

Rolling his eyes at the mirror with a snort, Harry got to his feet again and shuffled out of the kitchen, taking his sandwich along and ignoring Tingly's chiding about food in the library.

* * *

"It's worth a try," Mad-Eye growled, his magical eye surveying the Weasley Twins closely. "Has the drawing of memories from a phoenix ever been attempted before?"

"Not that I know of," Bill answered promptly. "But I think it would make sense. That way we could see where it was that Fawkes went."

"It will take a while, though." McGonagall's face was drawn, yet determined. "Fawkes is an old bird, he will have scores of memories to draw from."

"Get to it, then," Lupin said. "I'll be at the library... in case it doesn't work." With these words, he activated the portkey to Hogwarts, accompanied by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Dumbledore, who would retrieve his pensieve from his office.

* * *

It was nearly noon when Harry cared to look at his watch again. He had entered the library in the search of a map, but had been unsuccessful. Not that his visit to the study and library was a waste of time, however. Quite the contrary. He was soon distracted by the books on the shelves; by all looks of it, there wasn't one book that did not have to do with anything other than magical warfare. There was a wide selection, divided by topics such as Dark Magic, Creatures, Duelling, Defence, Offense, Strategy, Transfiguration, Charms... Whatever he could think of ever needing, it was there.

He was presently lounging comfortably in an overstuffed armchair in the living room, absorbed in '_The Hit-Wizard's Guide to Advanced Duelling_', a pile of books on the floor around him and the remains of his breakfast (and lunch) next to the perfectly still Sneakoscope on the coffee table by his side.

It seemed to have been one of his dad's or Sirius' old schoolbooks, to judge by the amount of scribbling and moving doodles that decorated almost every single page and which sometimes pointed out important things, or – Harry had been rather shocked to see this – _mistakes_ in the book, along with the necessary corrections.

If he hadn't known better, he would have thought Hermione had been the owner. Except that Hermione did _not_ doodle on books, or have entire written conversations on the margins, nor did she draw Quidditch strategies or the effects of a curse or other in every blank space left. He turned a page. Or support the Kenmare Kestrels.

Every now and then, Harry would glance out the window, or stand up to check the wards, at which point Tingly would pop up in any of the polished surfaces, to tell him everything was still in order and berate him for not going to bed.

Although his body was all but begging him to make good use of his fancy new bed, Harry's mind was almost painfully alert, and he knew he wouldn't be able to bat an eyelid, so why bother going to bed?

He had decided it would be safest to travel by night, make their way to this Inverarray town first and then travel to Surrey from there. Of course, that meant hiding all day, but Harry was ready, the wards were in place, and Voldemort had still not given the slightest indication of his presence yet, which Harry found more worrisome by the hour.

"The lump is up," Tingly said loudly, causing Harry to give a start and automatically reach for his wand.

Tingly raised an eyebrow and chuckled softly. Harry shot the silvery face a pointed look.

"Where?" he asked shortly, not in the mood for more taunts about his jumpiness, however good-natured they were.

"He's clunking and wobbling this way as we speak," came the smug reply. "Want to watch?"

_Watch...?_

"Er..."

Before Harry could answer, the tapestry right before him changed from a landscape that oddly resembled the one outside, to the now familiar hallway of the tent.

"Wicked..." Harry whispered.

On it, Dudley could be seen, plainly hesitating between going left, right, or through the vaulted corridor that led to the living room. Harry watched, fascinated, as the tapestry Dudley approached a statue, his bandaged leg proving quite a hindrance to his movement, only to leap back with a jerk as the stone Prongs snorted and shook his head.

Tapestry Dudley hurried down the vaulted corridor, and Harry's ears caught the clunking Tingly had told him about. And some whimpering too, as he drew closer.

"Morning, Dud, had a nice lie-in?" Harry asked in as pleasant a tone as his hoarse voice would allow.

What he didn't expect was Dudley to skid to a halt, shriek like a girl and try to run for it on his bandaged leg. Predictably, he crashed to the floor hard enough to make the tent shake, and frantically struggled to stand while shooting Harry terrified looks over his shoulder.

_So much for the Calming Draught, then._

"What is it with you?" Harry asked, rising from his seat and approaching his cousin, who roughly resembled a giant dung beetle on its back.

"G—get away from me!" Dudley shrieked, backing away from Harry.

"Wh...?"

"G-g-ghost!" Dudley stammered, still unable to stand. Harry looked down at himself and groaned. He'd forgotten to cancel the Disillusionment Charm!

"I'm not a ghost, you fat idiot," said Harry with annoyance. "This is a Disillusionment Charm I cast—never mind." He stepped closer, with the intention to help Dudley to his feet.

"H-Harry?" Dudley squeaked, still trying to back away from his cousin.

"Yeah, it's me," said Harry, beginning to loose his patience. "It's _me_, Harry. Now stop acting like the bonehead you are and—_stop that_." He grabbed one of Dudley's wrists, effectively making him desist in his attempts to run from him.

"B-but you're see-through!" Dudley stammered, aghast.

"That's the point of the _spell_, Diddy."

"You... you look like... like the Predator," Dudley said in a small, awed voice.

It was Harry's turn to look lost. _The what?_

"The... _what_?" he echoed his thoughts, when Dudley's expression did not change.

"You know, the alien that hunts down all sorts of creatures in the universe and collects their skulls," Dudley said in a rush, making Harry wish he'd never asked. "There's a movie and everything."

"Er... right," Harry muttered, rapping his wand on his head and cancelling the charm to Dudley's startled gasp. "It's a camouflage spell, well, sort of. It makes you almost invisible."

"Like the Predator," Dudley nodded emphatically.

"Whatever you say, Dud..." Harry sighed, all but heaving Dudley to his feet, who promptly plopped down on the nearest armchair.

Somewhere above his line of vision, he heard a muttered, "Pathetic...", courtesy of Tingly.

Harry couldn't help a ghost of a smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth, taking in the sight of a boneless lump Dudley provided.

* * *

"So." McGonagall stated neutrally.

"So." Kingsley echoed, running a hand over his bald pate. What to make of this new information?

"Potter is an enigma and no mistake," Mad-Eye threw in, his magical eye scanning the scene before, or rather, underneath them.

"To put it mildly," Dumbledore agreed quietly, pushing his half-moon spectacles up his nose and squinting around. "Does anyone know where we are?"

"I can't see a thing in this dratted fog."

The four of them were floating in midair, pulled along in the wake of Fawkes' memory, and looked down onto a barren wasteland covered, quite liberally in fog, as Mad-Eye had said. The visibility was so reduced that it was amazing that Fawkes had managed to find the tooth at all.

"How did he manage to find the tooth in this?" McGonagall voiced her doubts, closing her eyes briefly as the phoenix began its sharp descent.

"Fawkes sensed Harry, which is the way of magical birds to find whomever they are sent after," Dumbledore explained, seemingly unruffled by the sharp downwards movement they were making along with Fawkes. "What I cannot understand is why Fawkes came here and Harry is nowhere to be seen."

"Maybe he apparated elsewhere?" Kingsley muttered, holding McGonagall steady as the memory Fawkes made his ascent, every bit as abruptly as his descent had been.

"Fawkes would have gone straight to Harry, if that were the case." Dumbledore's words were defeated. "If we only knew where we are..."

Moody looked around for one last time. All he saw on the horizon were some nondescript, rather uninviting-looking hills covered with rocks to the North and East, peeking over the fog like ruinous beacons in the middle of the sea. To his left, he made out water, but the rest of the world was shrouded. Even as the memory ended and they returned to the Dursley living room, neither of them could suggest fitting places.

They had been the first to enter Fawkes' memory, in the hopes of spotting any kind of clues as to Harry's whereabouts, and although the remaining Order members were to watch next, they held little hope of finding anything useful.

Lupin entered the house, a crumpled piece of parchment in his hand, looking worn out and drained.

"Any luck?" he asked quietly, gritting his teeth at the answer provided by the faces around him. He gratefully received a cup of strong coffee from Molly, whose eyes were red-rimmed and raw. She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, although it was plain that she, for one, had given up hope already.

"I shall conjure up the memory for all to watch," Dumbledore said. "There is little to see, but perhaps one of us can spot anything useful."

The memory unfolded once more, issuing from the pensieve that had been placed on the coffee table, showing clouds, the rocky wasteland, what lay beyond—

There was a shocked gasp from Lupin, followed by the clatter of china breaking on the floor.

All eyes turned to the werewolf, who stared at the scene as if petrified.

"Remus...?" Dumbledore shot him a sharp glance.

"Do you know where that is?" Moody shot at Lupin, motioning for Dumbledore to freeze the image.

Slowly, Lupin peeled his eyes from the memory, swallowed, and gave them an uncertain nod.

"Yes. No. I can't tell for sure." He ran a hand through his hair. "For a moment there... I thought... but..."

* * *

"Your leg must be mended just fine already," Harry muttered after Dudley had finally finished choking on his Calming Draught. Ignoring the clueless look his cousin shot at him, he proceeded to tap his wand against the plaster, making it disappear.

"No, wait...!" Dudley gasped, but it was too late. The plaster had dissolved into thin air before he could react, and his leg bent as normal. Dudley whimpered, his face constricted in what could only be imaginary pain, clutching his thigh with his bear-like hands.

This dramatic display, guaranteed to make Aunt Petunia melt like chocolate with worry for her son, did nothing more than earn him a faintly amused look from Harry.

"Try and stand up, Diddykins," Harry said firmly. "Your leg is just fine."

"B-but..."

"Just stop whingeing and stand _up_," Harry said slowly and clearly, and though his tone was calm, it held an unmistakable hint of impatience.

"H-hey, it doesn't hurt anymore!"

"And it only took you half an eternity to realise it. Dud, if you think any faster, your brain may blow from the strain."

Dudley did not, however, so much as glare at Harry. He was gaping at his leg, bending and stretching it, with a look of utmost bewilderment that would have made a gorilla with down syndrome beam with pride.

"Wow..." Dudley got to his feet, and when he had established his leg would indeed carry his weight without giving way, did a sit-up, just to make sure. Harry uttered a soft chuckle.

"Those drinking things really worked," he said, unable to draw his sight from his mended leg.

"Did you doubt it for a moment? The nurse at my school can heal fractures in a minute," Harry replied, unable to keep a certain degree of smugness from his tone. "This was positively slow going, but I'm no Healer." He returned to his previous seat and opened his book again.

"What about sore muscles?" Dudley asked, suddenly keen. "How long does it take her to heal those?"

"A blink. Why?"

"Your freaky stuff is not all bad, Harry," Dudley said, slumping back down on the armchair and giving a contented sigh. His next words, however, made Harry give a snort.

"What's for breakfast?"

_That's Dudley Dursley for you_, Harry thought, rolling his eyes and scratching his scar.

He didn't know for sure when it had started to sting, but he actually welcomed the discomfort—or rather, the knowledge that came with it. Things were back to normal, apparently, and it was this more than anything else, that had helped him calm down further. Voldemort was confused by something, but also anxious to get something done. Oddly, blessedly, Harry knew it had nothing to do with him for once.

"I _said_: what's for breakfast?" Dudley repeated in the tone he had addressed Harry in during the long years before Hogwarts, making Harry wonder which Dudley was more annoying: the one who gibbered and flinched whenever he moved, or the one that was so exceedingly at ease with everything he forgot to be afraid of him. He'd have to be extra careful with the next dose of Calming Draught, though. The tone Dudley presently was using was sure to grit on his nerves rather quickly.

"Whatever you want," Harry said, turning a page to read up on a Night-Vision Charm he thought would come in handy that night. "Food's right there in the pantry, fix yourself something," he added indifferently, ignoring Dudley's disbelieving look.

Harry sincerely doubted that spoilt, bullying Dudley had ever so much as turned on the stove in his entire life.

"Wh—_what_?" Apparently Dudley thought so, too.

This would be fun to watch.

"Do you mean **_I_** have to _cook_?"

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched, and a slow, wicked smile spread across his face, even as a soft chuckle reached his ears from overhead.

"This'll be a laugh," Tingly whispered so low that only Harry could hear.

_Most definitely._

* * *

"Again." Lupin's voice was tight with strain, yet firm. With a sigh, Dumbledore activated the pensieve once more.

Lupin had watched the memory thrice over, and, although he insisted there was something he tried to recognise, as much as he racked his brains, he couldn't remember what it was.

For the fourth time that day, Dumbledore found himself swallowed into Fawkes' memory, soaring high in the overcast sky.

"What do you see over there, by the mountain?" Lupin pointed at one of the rocky hills.

"Remus, that cluster of rocks can hardly be termed a mountain," Dumbledore said reasonably. "A hill, yes, but not a moun—"

"That's it!" Lupin exclaimed suddenly. Almost at once, his face turned ashen. "Merlin save us..."

"Would you explain yourself, Remus?"

"Albus... _that_ is a mountain covered with a thick forest," Lupin pointed at the rocky hillside. Before waiting for Dumbledore to protest, he pointed shakily downwards at the barren landscape that stretched far beneath their feet. "And _those_... those are the Wastes of Azkaban."

* * *

TBC.

You've made it this far, review!


	12. The Fear Disease

**Disclaimer: I'm running out on stuff to say. JK (aka NotMe!) owns Harry Potter and everything that comes with the package, pleasedon'tsuemeIampoor.**

**Review.**

**Inverarray and everything you don't recognise from elsewhere sprung from my hollow head. Oh, and Rasmus. He's mine, and the closest thing to a Mary-Sue you'll see here. Mwaha.**

**Dedication:** A bunch of dedications are long due: To everyone who has taken the time to review so far! Yayness! Because feedback is my daily bread, ye merry hippogriffs.

To Japonica, for updating Always (I sort of forgot to include that the last time, so it goes here), and to Aedalena, who just might update Nullifier. If the planets are properly aligned, that is.

And to Amiable Dorsai, who hit the nail on the head a fair few times as to what would happen. You're not spying on me, are you:narrows eyes:

Go on, gloat. :toothy grin:

* * *

**Chapter Twelve – The Fear Disease**

_CLANG._

_SPLAT._

A furious curse, uttered though clenched teeth.

Harry raised his head from the _Hit-Wizard's Guide to Advanced Duelling_. His eyes wandered from the moving pictures demonstrating the step-by-step casting of the Dislocator Curse and to the kitchen, where he could see Dudley still trying to fix a simple dish of toast and eggs without killing himself in the attempt.

Thankfully, Harry had been able to clear the smoke, and the smell of burnt food that had lingered heavily over the place was all but gone by now. Not for long, if the sizzling that trailed to his ears was any indication.

Under any other circumstances, he would have put an end to Dudley's torture – and the consequential suffering of his ears – ages ago, but he was otherwise occupied. Besides, he had witnessed the smooth and immediate action of the Fire-Extinguishing Charms at work in the kitchen – twice – already, so there was nothing to worry about.

_CRASH._

At least, nothing that a Repair Spell couldn't fix, he amended.

The longer Dudley was engaged in...

_THUNK._

"Stupid thing! There's not even a bloody _toaster_ in this place!"

... _cooking_ – at least that was what the ickle boxing champ called it – the longer Harry could have some semblance of peace to prepare for their night-time journey. He rubbed his scar as it twinged, sending a wave of deep irritation and not a little frustration his way. Voldemort was growing restless because of something. Harry just hoped he would not throw a tantrum.

From the kitchen, Dudley levelled a killer glare at his cousin, hating him for sitting there with his stupid freaky book instead of fixing him the breakfast he so badly needed.

Harry cricked his neck, his eyes fairly dancing with amusement as he returned Dudley's gaze with an expression of curiosity that somehow did not feel all that fake.

"Hey, Dud..." Harry said, noticing his voice seemed to be on the right path to regaining its usual tone.

"What?"

"There's smoke coming out behind you," Harry commented. "Again."

The wail that escaped from Dudley's throat was heartfelt. He looked pleadingly at Harry.

"Can't you...?" he gestured in direction of the stove, where the Fire-Extinguishing Charms were already active. Pink smoke rose, engulfing the flaming frying pan and preventing any further damage.

"Cooking is certainly amongst my capabilities, Diddy," said Harry, opening his book once more. Upon noticing his cousin continued to stare at him, he added, "You'd better hurry up, Popkin. At this rate, it'll be dinner you'll be preparing."

The reaction was immediate.

"Don't call me Popkin!" Dudley shouted, his hands clenching into fists. "Or else I—"

"Or else what?" Harry said unconcernedly, putting down his book and giving Dudley a mildly challenging look. "You'll give me the 'old one-two'?"

Dudley's mouth snapped shut, but his small eyes glinted angrily. With a huff, he turned his back on Harry, who scoffed and read on, smirking at a flashing arrow that pointed to the subject of the Dislocator Curse, with the words, "To try out on cousin Trixie" written in Sirius' handwriting.

Later, Harry couldn't tell what had been more hilarious: Dudley's botched attempts at cooking, or when the moment came to eat it all up.

He glanced at his cousin, who was sputtering furiously over his charred eggs and bacon, which, to be fair, were not as badly carbonised as the three previous attempts, which had found a more permanent residence inside the rubbish bin at the corner.

"I can't eat this," Dudley muttered furiously, his piggy eyes glinting at Harry as if it had been his fault. Which was, quite probably, what he believed anyway.

A squeaky _hic_! came from the rubbish bin, and Dudley jumped back a step with a squealing cry, letting go of his empty plate, which shattered on the floor. The rubbish bin, in turn, began to hiccup loudly every so often, which seemed to prove too much for Dudley to bear, Calming Draught or no.

Harry then took pity on his cousin, cleared the mess with a wave of his wand, suggested sandwiches for lunch, and led the shivering Dudley out of the kitchen before his legs gave way under him.

Behind them, the rubbish bin gave a loud belch.

* * *

He had grown increasingly quiet as time wore on, and not even pacing around the living room had helped his mounting anxiety. He glanced at his watch for the third time in the space of five minutes.

Three o'clock.

_Slytherin's pink bloomers, could time go **any** slower?_

He mentally reviewed his plan, which now had acquired not only shape, but also was ready to be put into action at any minute. He had no map, but otherwise, he had done and redone everything he could do.

If only he didn't have to wait another five hours.

He had stumbled upon the problem of transportation, of course. A second exploration walk around the tent had provided the solution, quite literally mounted in a glass case. Harry's hand disappeared inside his pocket, finding his eek and the two broomsticks concealed within.

He could tell them apart by touch, and the brass compass mounted on his Firebolt felt superfluous now. His own broomstick had a scratch on the handle, a small dent, insignificant to its functionality and yet meaningful to him. A souvenir from the previous day's attack.

The other broomstick was identical to his own, except that the high-finish polish was intact; the second broom had never been flown, aside from a couple of test laps around the Duelling Chamber. So Tingly had told him.

Sirius had wanted his first real flight on that broom to be in Harry's company.

This knowledge caused a leaden weight to settle in the pit of his stomach, cold and twisting. Heavy with guilt. Harry tore his eyes away from the tapestry between the two fireplaces, which showed the landscape to the north, fighting the sudden urge to blink furiously.

'_There are things worth dying for!' _Those had been his exact words, when Fred and George had lashed out at him. He had said they couldn't understand, and he'd been right. Harry still couldn't.

_Was I worth it, Sirius?_

Part of him scoffed for even thinking that question, knowing. Another part of him did not want to know the answer to it. Not ever.

He glanced at Dudley instead, who was squeezed in an armchair, the perfect likeness of a stranded whale. One that seemed much more at ease with the world, too. Dudley was presently occupied discovering the better side of magic; a chocolate frog was in his left hand, while the other opened the wrapping with utmost caution.

Exhausted, Harry slumped further in his chair. He ought to try and sleep a little, he knew, but no matter what he did, he couldn't.

"No—" Dudley exclaimed, lunging for the chocolate frog that had leapt out of his reach and falling flat on his face, the empty wrapper clutched in his fist. The frog landed straight on top of his head and gave a little hop, even as Dudley tried to grab it, managing only to give himself a hard smack on the head and squash the frog flat in the process.

Harry regarded his cousin, shaking his head, a vague ghost of amusement flitting across his face. He opened his mouth to speak, when—

"_Take them and kill them if they are too many, but do not advance just yet. The old man is sly. Detect every single ward and dismantle them without him noticing." Harry hissed, a smoking goblet in his hand._

"_It will take time, My Lord..." The hooded figure prostrated before his bedside spoke with a foreign accent that nevertheless did not mask his fear. None of them could do that._

"_Time I have in spades, Rasmus. It is **foolishness** I do not suffer lightly."_

The searing, white-hot pain left him as soon as it had come. Gasping, Harry clapped a hand to his forehead, blinking at the suddenly painful light. His left eye was throbbing once more, and for a moment the world slid out of focus.

He closed his eyes, trying to control the inevitable bout of nausea that followed the pain in his scar, and attempted to sort out the alien feelings that came with it.

Voldemort was excited about something, something that would be very useful to carry out his plans... It had nothing to do with him, Harry realised, and he was honestly relieved about it, wrong as the thought struck him as. Whoever was being targeted by Voldemort would probably suffer a great deal, but Harry couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for a faceless victim at the moment. He could not help them, whoever they were. He had enough trouble, as it was, trying to help himself.

He opened his eyes.

Dudley was staring at him like a baby hippo caught in the headlights, a Chocolate Frog Card in his hand. Harry squinted at it.

Dumbledore twinkled merrily at him.

Harry looked away, feeling somehow more tired than ever before.

* * *

"Harry is in _Azkaban_?"

"No, Molly—let me explain..." Remus' tone was urgent. He had remembered at last, managed to force his mind to yield the vital part of information he only now realised had been gone clean from his mind. Apparently, when Sirius and James had suspected him of being the spy, neither had remained idle.

Not that he would have expected them to. There had been too much at stake, then, to just do nothing.

There still was.

A part of him wondered how much more he had forgotten. Memory Charms didn't really work on werewolves, as his friends had known full well, and the more detached part of his mind was trying to understand what exactly was at work here, why he could recognise the place with relative ease, yet have so much trouble remembering _where_ it was situated.

The less detached part of him was wringing his insides into knots. The revelation had struck a chord he thought could no longer be moved, one he thought buried long ago. Clearly, he'd been wrong.

But there was no time to indulge in self-pity and old memories now. They had to find Harry first, everything else just _had_ to wait. Even things that _felt_ so much more relevant at the moment than finding the Wizarding World's last hope.

The Order needed to know what little he now remembered. They needed to be told, and Remus knew the explanation would not come easily. Sometimes, even back then, the numerous arrangements had seemed confusing to him. He wondered if Sirius and James had ever felt the overwhelming complexity of their plans weigh so heavily on their shoulders as it did on Remus' now.

"He's somewhere in the _Wastes_ of Azkaban," he resumed his report, stressing the word and knowing that much more explaining would be needed to describe the place. The Order, he also knew, would hardly let him finish.

And sure enough—

"Well, there's hardly a difference--"

"On the contrary. There's a world of difference." Remus cut Shacklebolt off cleanly, his expression so grave it quenched the remaining attempts of voiced opinions before they were uttered.

_Now, where to start explaining? _

The entire tale would take days upon days to tell, and not even Remus knew it whole. In fact, what with the evidence of this Memory Charm (what else could it have been?), he doubted he could even tell _half_ of it, with any luck. Sirius, on the other hand, would have been able to.

It was him, after all, who had staged the whole 'Operation Muncher Bluff' – which James had jokingly referred to as 'Operation Barmy Watchdog' when Sirius wasn't listening – down to the last detail.

James had helped, of course, and Lily, and between the three of them they had turned the High House of Black, an impressive enough ancient manor, into Black Lodge, a fortress that could be defended by one person only. If one had the power necessary to achieve such a feat, that was. Which, Remus reminded himself, he did not possess, but both Sirius and James had. Not that it sufficed in the end, which was saying a lot about Voldemort's power in those days— but he was rambling.

_Right. Starting point._

Deciding to skip the first part of the story, Remus Lupin spoke again, fully aware of the sets of eyes hanging onto his every word.

"Back when Harry was born, James and Lily were living at Sirius'--"

Plainly, this was not the best point where to start from.

"Lupin, you're straying from the subject." McGonagall had quickly reverted to her classroom stance, and Lupin squeezed out a tiny smile.

"I am not. This has to do with the Potters' whereabouts before they moved to Godric's Hollow," he retorted evenly. When had it become so easy to speak of Lily and James that way? He mentally shrugged it off. "After Godric's Hall was destroyed, they moved around several times, as you might recall, before settling in with Sirius."

"The Potters were living in Manchester when Harry was born, and Sirius lived in Dartmoor, if I am not mistaken? I do not recall them _ever_ moving in with Sirius." Dumbledore's face was drawn. He, too, seemed to be remembering old times, in spite of the situation.

"No, no, Sirius had a house in Cornwall—" Dung threw in, only to be interrupted quite flatly by Arabella Figg.

"The Potters were living in York. I _would_ know, since I babysat Harry for them a few times."

"I remember quite distinctly they had a house near Exeter," Hestia objected with a deep frown, shaking her head.

"Those were all decoys." Remus had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the babble.

"But I visited them at Cornwall a few times--" Dung insisted, looking dolefully at Remus, who only now realised how thoroughly his friends had fooled everyone. He half expected an explosion of glittery confetti to burst from thin air, complete with a banner proclaiming the words 'You have been had!', as James had promised he would do if they were ever found out.

"They would apparate whenever someone called at any of those places," Lupin resumed his tale yet again, remembering the many pains his friends had taken to make the total six houses look nearly identical from the inside. "Besides, if you remember, the main access to their house was through the Floo. So they set up scores of spells that would trick visitors into believing they were in York, for instance, when in reality they were visiting Black Lodge."

Mad-Eye chuckled appreciatively. Having taught both James and Sirius in their day, the paranoid Ex-Auror had become rather intimate with their unorthodox way of handling things. However, he seemed to be the only one so far who had understood what Remus meant to explain.

"Oh." McGonagall's eyes widened, comprehension dawning. Lupin did not find it as uncanny as he perhaps should have. The Transfiguration Teacher certainly had gotten to know the Marauders quite well over the years she had spent trying to end their mad pranking career at Hogwarts, and even better later, after they had all joined the Order's ranks.

"What did they do to trick the Floo?" It was Arthur who spoke up, and Lupin inwardly groaned.

"It was a... complicated connection system." This was not going the way he wanted it to, not at all. The Floo connections alone had been a month-long operation, not to mention illegal, and they were not the only thing the two Marauders had set up _way_ outside the boundaries of Wizarding Law. Aside from the fact that he didn't want to besmirch his friends' (mostly) clean records, Remus knew that explaining every detail he recalled would take too much time. He decided on another vein.

"They were, as we all know, primary targets of Voldemort's – he resolutely ignored the hisses and flinching around him – and James and Lily had a particularly hard time finding a long-term residence anywhere." Some of the older members nodded reminiscently, their faces grim and drawn. "The Potters moved in with Sirius some time in the spring of 1980, before Harry was born, and the three of them came up with a plan that would keep them safe, or so they hoped.

"Whatever the reasons for it, Black Lodge was the only place James and Lily found some peace. They didn't have to move for over a year… until it was destroyed in August 1981 and it became obvious they needed to do something else if they wanted to survive. "

"The Fidelius Charm." Shacklebolt nodded thoughtfully.

"Exactly."

"What does this story, enlightening as it is, have to do with Potter's current whereabouts?" Hestia Jones inquired. She was not a very patient woman, Remus knew, and she was plainly resisting the urge to shake him and force him to make a point already.

"Everything. Harry must have some sort of recollection of his time there, that would explain why he Apparated in that wasteland." Lupin's eyes were fixed on the Auror, otherwise he would have noticed the sudden change in the old headmaster's bearing.

Dumbledore's eyes flashed keenly for a moment, his whole body straightening. Next to him, McGonagall stiffened also, and shot him an uneasy sideways glance. He shook his head ever so slightly, returning to his previous stance after a mere few seconds. McGonagall pursed her lips, a sure sign of disapproval, but said nothing.

"The Potters lived... on the island of Azkaban?" Dung Fletcher's bloodhound eyes were as wide as they could go, and his tone was completely bewildered, not to mention disbelieving.

"No, no, _no_." Lupin's eyes wandered to meet Fletcher's, and he struggled to hide his impatience. Yelling at them would not help him any. "We called the wasteland that way, seeing as it was the first thing we saw from the Overlook... from the house, I mean. Nothing ever grew down there, and, seeing as the island of Azkaban was the next thing we could see from there, we thought it fitting. The location of Black Lodge itself was on the mainland."

At this statement, the confused babble broke out once more.

"Hang on. Do you mean to say that… what are you trying to say?"

"James and Lily lived in the wasteland _next door_ to Azkaban? "

"But not actually _on_ Azkaban?"

"Not quite in the Wastes, but the mountain that's a few score miles further to the north, the one _you_ all see as a rocky hill... and yes, it's all on the mainland." Remus gestured to the frozen memory, which showed a mountainside covered thickly with trees. For him, at least. The rest, even Dumbledore, for some reason, saw only a low hilltop cluttered with ugly boulders.

"That's still too close to Azkaban. Voldemort kept trying to get it as his fortress back then." Mad-Eye growled, shaking his grizzled head.

"That was one of the reasons they lived there, if I recall correctly."

"Because it was _close_ to You-Know-Who?" Molly's face mirrored Dung's disbelieving expression. There was no hesitation in the answer.

"Yes."

"You're mental. I mean, the _Potters_ were mental," Tonks stated, frowning deeply and shaking her head.

"It was Sirius' idea." Lupin shrugged. _And it worked, too._

"Sirius was barking." she retorted at once, a slight smirk on her face. Lupin cut a grimace.

"He might have been," he agreed with a small smile of his own, "but I believe it was partly the location of the house what kept the Potters alive far longer than we thought possible."

"So… why can't _we_ see the place?" Bill Weasley spoke up, squinting at the memory that still irradiated from the old Pensieve, frozen.

"Er…" Lupin hesitated, trying to recall. "Shrouding Spells, I would think."

"Shouldn't those have been broken when the house was destroyed?" Although Bill had been too young to take an active part during the First War, he had a way to figure things out, and Lupin gratefully took the chance to return to the matter at hand.

"No idea. As far as we could see in the memory, they're still active for some odd reason."

"Would they hide Harry? From Fawkes?" Being a Curse Breaker had its uses.

"No, they just made the house and its grounds look like a rocky hill that made people want to go anywhere but there. Fawkes ought to have had no problem finding Harry if he made it to the grounds." _He's done it before, after all._

Remus forced the memory of Fawkes' various visits to Black Lodge back to the seldom visited corner of his mind where it belonged. Not one of them had been good news.

"But why didn't Fawkes find Potter, then?" McGonagall voiced, yet again, the one question they had no answer to.

"I don't know. It's as if the earth had swallowed him." Lupin sighed. It would be a long afternoon.

* * *

"_My Lord, the three outer layers of wards are down now."_

"_Excellent, Rasmus," Harry answered, snapping his fingers to have Wormtail help him sit upright._

"_Should we attack, My Lord?" Rasmus' eagerness was barely concealed. The man was fairly shivering in anticipation._

"_Not yet, my friend, not yet. Has the old man given any indication?"_

"_No, My Lord. They are all in the dark. My work is—"_

"_As thorough as I expected it to be," Harry interrupted, allowing himself a small chuckle that caused the Death Eater before him to stiffen slightly. "Do not attack yet, Rasmus. All wards must be down before we can do so. The old man is no laughing matter, and I expect he will be suspicious."_

"_My Lord, the fire could not be prevented," Rasmus mumbled apologetically. "We needed to ascertain the strength of the wards and the response to..."_

_Harry waved a long, bony hand at him in a rarely seen gesture of dismissal._

"_No matter. As long as you bring me the cores and disable the three inner layers of wards, he shall not stand a chance. You say he is in the dark, keep him that way. Disable **all** wards first." Harry's gaze shifted to a group of robed people to his left. "Then we shall make the Dark shall engulf him forever."_

Shrill laughter resounded in Harry's ears, and the dark bedchamber swirled and faded around him, even as he struggled to wake, only to come into focus in the shape of another room, only this one was lined with books and scrolls of yellow parchment.

_He looked into pale green eyes glinting furiously at him and brought himself not to flinch. How long had he been here, getting yelled at? He could not tell, any more than he could stop his hands from trembling._

"_...such irresponsibility! I cannae believe your carelessness!" The entire room seemed to shake with the booming of that voice, the air itself seemed to crackle with the man's wrath._

"_Sir, I..."_

"_You WHAT? You're _sorry_? You self-centred oatbrain, you endanger every member of this family because you wanted to have yerself a good crack or two, and all you can come up with is 'I'm sorry'?"_

"_I..."_

"_Don't you see that all I have done all yer miserable life was try to keep yeh two safe?"_

"_I **know**..."_

"_Well, let me educate you further." The tone was a deadly quiet now, but not less dangerous. He did flinch this time, and Gramps noticed it. He always did. "I shall not condone one more death at your hands, least of all your brother's. Wasn't your mother sacrifice enough?"_

_His stomach clenched. He was dimly aware that his hands had stopped shaking, even as his insides went cold._

_He did nothing to stop the blow._

Harry woke with a yelp, only to find himself face to face with Dudley again, who had taken a firm hold on the collar of his robes and was shaking him.

However, rather than frightened, Dudley's face was flushed purple, furious. And he was yelling.

"...throw it away this instant!"

"Wha—" Harry somehow found himself standing, pointing his wand at Dudley's chest. "Let go!"

Dudley backed away with a start, the familiar fear of magic written across his face.

"What is it?" Harry forgot his pains, suddenly alert. He glanced out the window, a hex ready on his lips. "Anyone attacking—?"

"The mirror in the bathroom!" Dudley squealed, backing away from his cousin. Harry blinked hard, trying to get his eyes to come into focus.

"The...?" He lowered his wand and turned to Dudley again, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

"The stupid mirror! It talks!"

"Well... yeah." Harry gave Dudley a confused look. "So?"

"It called me pigface!" Dudley shouted, regaining his furious manner. "I want you to throw it out!"

Harry groaned aloud, throwing his head back and letting himself fall back on his chair.

_That's what you get for falling asleep._

"Dud, I'm not throwing my mirror out just because you say so," he told the ceiling in a tone of forced calm.

"But... It _talks_!"

"Most magical mirrors do." Harry gave his head a quick shake, and finally could see properly again.

"It insulted me!" Dudley was scandalised, probably all the more so because of Harry's indifferent reaction.

"It's not like it was lying." Harry's tone was calm, but it held a warning that not even Dudley could miss. For a long moment, Dudley didn't move, his fat fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to clench around Harry's neck.

"Fine," he snarled angrily, crossing his arms in a huff. "When are we leaving anyway? There's not even a telly in this freaky place."

Harry checked his watch.

"In a couple of hours," he told Dudley, his stomach doing a weird wiggle that was in no way related to the... er... _dreams_ he had just been woken from. "As soon as it's dim enough."

"Dim?" Dudley had not expected such an answer.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "_Dim_, like you. You ought to get ready."

"Hang on," Dudley grunted, "I thought someone was coming to get us?"

"Have you seen _anyone_ arrive to get us out of here?" Harry countered heatedly, his eyes glinting in the firelight.

"No, but... aren't your... you know... looking for us at all?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted quietly, all anger gone from his voice as abruptly as it had come. "If they were looking for us, they ought to have found us by now," he said bitterly. "They were supposed to be watching Privet Drive, so nothing happened to us either, but there you are."

"They were guarding _you_, you mean." There was a definite note of hurt in Dudley's voice that made Harry look up.

"No, Dud. They were supposed to be watching Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, you, _and_ me. They said they'd keep anything from happening to any of us. It's just like last year, dammit!" Harry banged his fist on the nearest table, making Dudley jump.

"Yeah... with those Dementis-things," he nodded emphatically, swallowing. "I remember those."

"Dementors," Harry corrected automatically. "And yeah, that wasn't supposed to happen either. Besides, it's no good just sitting here waiting. So we're leaving."

"H-how are we getting back?"

"Our best chance is to Disillusion ourselves and fly to a town that's not too far away to the south," Harry muttered in his hoarse voice. "I'll have to cast a Binding Spell on you, mind. When we get there, maybe we'll find a map and then we can decide upon a route, because I still don't know where we are—_what_?"

Dudley was gaping open-mouthed at him, and Harry had the distinct feeling that, had he told his cousin they'd be riding back on wild dragons whom they had to poke with red-hot irons to keep moving, he would have received the same response. So he decided to simplify things.

A lot.

"We're flying back to Surrey."

"We're _flying_ all the way home?" Dudley's expression became, if possible, even more clueless. Well, at least he had caught on the main idea.

"That's the best we've got. I mean, unless you have a better idea..." Harry gave him a meaningful look.

"Why don't we stay and wait for someone to find us?"

"That's out of the question. What if the Death Eaters come along?" Harry said quickly.

"Oh, yeah..." Dudley mumbled.

Both boys fell silent for a long time.

Casting about for something to do, Harry took to fixing dinner, which Dudley all but devoured hungrily, completely ignoring the fact that the meal had been prepared purely with magic. In Dudley's case, the phrase 'love and food go together' (or some such thing, Harry was still unsure as to the proper wording) fit to a tee, to judge by the gusto with which he tucked in.

Harry ate very little. He felt like he was chewing leather and forcing down wood shavings, and his every bite was as reluctant as his cousin's were hearty.

* * *

"You can't _remember_ where it is!" Shacklebolt's booming voice made the muggles behind him give a start.

Petunia and Vernon Dursley had, perhaps, retreated to their bedroom for the night, but they had both returned and remained – quite unobtrusively, at that – watching every move from the Order. Mrs. Figg gave them Calming Draught at regular intervals, but they were both still reacting badly at the sudden loud outbursts from the wizards in their house. Vernon in particular.

Not that anyone paid them any heed.

"No," Lupin said tiredly, looking out the window at the sun, which would soon set, marking yet another night Harry was not found. "I can't. No matter how hard I try, I can't remember where Black Lodge is located."

"But you've been there before, haven't you?"

"Yes. Hand me the map." The table was cleared with a wave of a wand, and Lupin bent over the large magical map of the British Isles.

There was a tense silence, the likes of which had become common in the past twenty-four hours.

"Does anyone know the location of Azkaban?" he asked next, looking up. "It would help narrow down the search perimeter." The old prison complex was unplottable, and few could pinpoint its exact location, as no sane wizard went there out of his own accord. It was their luck that two members of the Order had once had to visit quite often.

Dumbledore and Mad-Eye both moved at the same time, but the old Ex-Auror was faster by a notch.

"Here," he grunted, gesturing at the northernmost part of Scotland and bringing a gnarled finger down somewhere north from Cape Wrath.

"There are six towns that could be eligible," McGonagall said after some consideration. Lupin nodded, staring at the names: Scourie, Rhiconich, Inverarray, Durness, Eriboll, Tongue. He did not recognise one of them.

"Why are we trying to find Black Lodge at all?" Bill said suddenly. All turned to look at him. "I mean," the Curse-Breaker went on sensibly, "There is the distinct possibility of Harry having been _taken_ to Azkaban."

Yet again, everybody suddenly was talking at once, but the comments were not, as it surely seemed to the Dursleys, completely unrelated to each other.

"If Fawkes could not find Harry..."

"Has You-Know-Who taken Azkaban?"

"All we know is that it has been lost to the Dementors..."

"Yeah, but if You-Know-Who controls the Dementors...?"

"Can a phoenix enter Azkaban?"

"I remember Sirius saying nobody could apparate in Azkaban, all had to be done the Muggle way."

"Well, if Fawkes can apparate all over the place at _Hogwarts_..."

"How would we go about getting Potter out of _there_?"

"Maybe one of us should go with Fawkes and have a closer look..."

Albus Dumbledore raised a hand. As one, the witches and wizards around him stopped talking.

"We can't use Fawkes. He was reborn only a few weeks ago, and drawing the memories was taxing enough for him as it was." He gestured at the sleeping bird lying on an ornate purple cushion. "I think it would be best to—"

"There must be _something_ we can do!" Tonks erupted furiously, cutting Dumbledore off. "Even if it means storming Azkaban, we cannot leave Harry on his own!" The babble rose once more, all Order members present voicing their agreement.

"Nobody will be going anywhere." A cold voice said from the doorway. Severus Snape had returned from his meeting with Voldemort.

"I have news."

* * *

Anxious as he was of their nightly, highly dangerous journey, Harry could hardly wait to be on the move.

Waiting, he decided, sucked.

As the minutes ticked past, he found himself remembering other times when he had felt so wretched, so nervous.

The familiar way his stomach was doing back flips in quick succession and the slight trembling of his fingers brought back memories from what felt like another life. His first ever Quidditch match came to mind, followed by the mental image of that First Task of the Triwizard Tournament.

He snorted without humour. Back then, things had always seemed complicated. Now, he thought them simple, _straightforward_ affairs. When had he begun to change so much?

This was different, however. Ron and Hermione had always been there for him, and even though Ron and he weren't talking back before he faced that dragon – hell, he had even _seen_ it beforehand! – the Triwizard Tournament had been held in familiar territory, and Harry had not been completely alone before, like now... A part of him longed for the companionship of his two best friends, not in the least because they would surely come up with a few good ideas.

His eyes acquired a steely glint. No; he would not allow himself to be weak now.

Outside, a war was being fought, and he could do nothing more than do his part, as much as he wished to simply ignore it.

He _had_ to see this through, because he'd be damned if he let anyone else, even Dudley, suffer because of him. It was well that Hermione was in Australia with her parents, and even better that Ron and Ginny were in Romania helping Charlie with the dragons. They deserved to be happy, to get away from the madness the world was coming to, if only for a while. Away from him.

Outside, lightning rent the hereto overcast sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder.

Harry sighed in defeat. Not even nature seemed to be accommodating for him today, he mused wretchedly, watching the large raindrops splattering against the window panes.

He pushed his plate away, rising to stare out the kitchen window. It was almost time to move, and he was restless. There was a feeling rising in the pit of his stomach, a nagging sense of having overlooked something, and for one of the best Seekers in history, it meant a great deal.

The rain was threatening to become a storm, but the colder part of him welcomed it; add the weather conditions to the Disillusionment Charms and the Invisibility Cloaks, and they would be virtually impossible to spot.

He looked at his watch one last time, confirmed with a look out the darkened window.

It was time.

"Good luck, Harry," Tingly said from the window pane, winking at him merrily.

"I'm going to need it," Harry agreed, feeling his throat constrict slightly.

"Be careful, eh?"

Nodding at the mirror almost mournfully, Harry began to ready himself to leave.

* * *

He double-checked that the Water-Repelling Charms were in place before he adjusted his Invisibility Cloak around his neck. Beside him, Dudley, cast uneasy glances at the suits of armour that still barred the way out, their long spears crossed before the doors.

Harry gave them little more than a passing notice. He raised his wand, muttering, "_Noctoculos_" as he twirled it before his face. He found he had to blink away the little lights dancing before his vision.

_Turn off the lights _before_ casting—I forgot. Gah!_

"Come here, Dud," he said, squinting at the suddenly overbright light of the entrance hall. "I need to waterproof you."

"No, you don't!" Dudley exclaimed, taking a step backwards and clamping his hands firmly on his bottom. He stared at Harry's partly concealed persona in horror.

"Listen here, _Big D_," Harry said, his already stretched patience snapping at last. "It's nothing like _that_. Now I'll cast a spell on you that is going to help you stay dry, unless you want to be outside without it."

"Y-you w-won't turn me into a pig?" Dudley whimpered, his hands tightening their grip on his vast backside.

Harry shook his head gravely, filing this moment away in his mind for later, when he would hopefully have the chance to laugh his head off at the memory. Now was not the time.

"_Impervius_," he said instead, tapping Dudley's head lightly with his wand. "There. Wasn't so hard, now was it?"

Dudley, who had tried to duck away from his cousin, straightened up slowly, after making sure his behind was still tail-free.

"I don't feel any different," he grunted. Harry rolled his eyes.

The final preparations were met quickly. A voiced command from Harry made the suits of armour snap to attention at either side of the doors, and Harry drew the Firebolts from his dragonhide case.

Beside him, a shivering Dudley, wearing Mr. Weasley's Invisibility Cloak, cast uneasy glances at the rain outside. His floating face reminded Harry of the pumpkins that were part of the customary Halloween decorations at Hogwarts. He hoped he'd live long enough to see them again.

Harry opened the doors, only to receive a blast of very cold rain in the face. Suppressing a shudder, he grabbed Dudley's fat wrist and stepped out of the tent, fairly dragging his cousin along.

"Take care, Harry," Tingly called after him. He turned around, pulling Dudley back when he jumped at the voice.

"Cheers, Tingly."

"Tingly? What kind of stupid name is _that_?"

"That's the talking mirror's name," said Harry.

"Yes," Tingly threw in proudly. "Harry named me himself."

Dudley's grunting laughter resounded in Harry's ears as he slammed the doors shut.

The tent shrank and packed itself with a wave of his wand, and he replaced it in his dragonhide case, glad for the Water-Repelling Charms he had cast earlier. The storm was working itself into a gale, and he would have been drenched to the bone by now.

Beside him, Dudley shivered, his teeth chattering in the cold, his outline faintly visible due to the raindrops bouncing off him; Harry had Disillusioned them both, and was presently checking the darkened landscape for any signs of movement.

The Night-Vision Charm worked wonderfully, Harry noted. He could see as if it were daytime, his widened pupils taking every sliver of light and using it to his greatest advantage, even despite the wind and rain whipping his cloak around his feet.

Dudley sniffled.

"Where are we going again?" he asked miserably, clearly not at all happy with the travel arrangements.

"Inverarray," Harry muttered, casting a strong Anti-Fall Spell on one of the broomsticks, so Dudley would not fall off. "It's a town thirteen miles to the south."

"Never heard of it."

"We're going there anyway." Harry's tone left no space for arguments. "From there we might get some information to return to Surrey."

"And take a train?" Dudley asked hopefully, eyeing the broomsticks moving around in midair by what could only be Harry's hand with deep mistrust.

"That'll only get us caught faster. _Up_!" Both brooms leapt up and floated in midair, waiting to be mounted. Harry cast one last Binding Spell to make sure the brooms were not more than a few feet apart and gestured for Dudley to mount, taking in his surroundings.

"Okay, let's go."

"I'll fall off!" Dudley squealed, his voice shaking with fear.

"Nonsense," Harry snapped. "Just kick off from the ground and let's go."

"But—"

"Let's go!" Harry snapped again, mounting his own Firebolt. "Kick off. Now!"

There was a squelching sound as his boot connected with the ground, and Harry was airborne, warily checking his surroundings—when he was yanked back to the stony ground, pulled down by a heavy, dead weight and came crashing down with an even larger, wet _thump_.

"Dammit Dudley, you just had to kick off—" Harry said angrily, picking himself and his Firebolt up with a jerky movement.

"I did!" Dudley cried from somewhere to Harry's right. "This thing just wobbled and fell down!"

_Oh._

Eyes widened in realisation.

_Bugger._

* * *

"This... clearly changes things."

The headmaster's quiet comment sounded, in Tonks' ears, like the understatement of the year.

Voldemort had indeed taken over the command of the Dementors.

He had taken over Azkaban.

"There is more," Snape said, his cold eyes surveying the rattled group before him. "The Dark Lord seems to be afflicted by a disease."

Heads shot up, revealing identical expressions of disbelief.

Lupin's eyebrows rose.

_Voldemort, **ill**?_ This could only be good, as impossible as the idea sounded.

"Severus?" Dumbledore interrupted the badly-hidden gloating of his Potions Master. The headmaster seemed as nonplussed as the rest of them.

"He fell unconscious last evening, of causes unknown," Snape said in his slow, velvety tone, which nevertheless held a hint of smugness that was (thankfully) rarely heard coming from him. "I was required at Azkaban to brew the necessary restorative potions. The Dark Lord only regained consciousness at noon today."

"How?" Mad-Eye rasped out, his magical eye scrutinising their spy.

"I did mention the causes are _unknown_," Snape replied archly. "Lucius Malfoy confided that the Dark Lord suddenly convulsed and lost consciousness. By the time I was summoned by him, he was running a fever."

"I hope you poisoned the bastard," Fred threw in, earning himself a withering glare from his former teacher. When Snape spoke again, however, the answer was directed to Dumbledore.

"You will understand that I had to brew the necessary potions, headmaster. If not for this chance, I would not have been let in on the location of the Dark Lord's current headquarters."

"I understand perfectly, Severus." Dumbledore's tone was calm. "However, there is one thing that concerns us more closely." In a few sentences, Snape was filled in on Harry's most likely location.

"Not an ounce of sense," the Potions Master spat furiously. "You do realise that if the Dark Lord gets wind that Potter is near, he will move all his forces out to get him?"

"Potter is not in Azkaban?" Shacklebolt asked urgently.

"No, and the Dark Lord has not sent anyone after him, either." Snape's tone was one of definite certainty. "Presently, only that big-mouthed idiot Malfoy and some other Death Eaters are with the Dark Lord. Just the Innermost Circle. He called some to a meeting an hour back, which I was not required to attend." Snape paused momentarily, scowling deeply. The fact that he was not a member of the chosen few jarred him, it was plain to see.

"However, Malfoy told me the Dark Lord continues his search for wand cores of, shall we say, uncommon sources, and at the moment he is bent on finding those. Had he captured Potter, he would likely not be sitting calmly in his bed and waiting for the outcome of a simple raid."

"A raid?" Mad-Eye said harshly. "Where? Who is he targeting?"

"I shall know soon enough. For now, I am expected to brew these," Snape handed Dumbledore a list of potions, "and I shall attempt to notify you as soon as I know."

Dumbledore read the list and passed it wordlessly to Moody.

It was long, and contained mostly poisons and potions used formerly to torture prisoners. Not one of the items listed was legal; all had been outlawed by Wizarding Law, some as far back as 1432.

The list spoke volumes of Voldemort's plans for his new playground.

* * *

For a few long moments, Harry simply stood in the increasingly strong rain, gaping at Dudley and feeling immensely stupid.

He had made a mistake in his calculations, a crucial mistake at that.

Muggles couldn't fly.

_Everybody_ knew that.

_Damn._

Now what to do? Gritting his teeth, Harry sploshed towards the spot where he could just make out a broomstick floating in midair.

He could not leave Dudley here on his own, although it would be the easiest thing to do: for one, he didn't want his tent burnt to a crisp if Big D fancied a snack. Besides, he just couldn't bring himself to leave him.

"Dud..." he started, turning things over in his mind. The figure next to him gave a little jump and a squeak. Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'll charm you to be light and I'll levitate you with me," he said after a moment's consideration.

"What if I fall?"

"You won't."

"How do _you_ know?"

"I just do, _all right_?" He glared at his cousin, in time to notice him back away, letting go of Sirius' brand-new broomstick. Harry's hand shot out to catch it before it hit the ground.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't see you, aren't you there?"

"Where?" Harry asked irritably. "It's not like I can see you either, you dimwit!"

"I'm right here," Dudley's voice trailed somewhere to his left.

"This is stupid—_Finite_!" Harry raised his wand, and almost immediately wished he hadn't: He had cancelled both the Water-Repelling and Disillusionment Charms, and the rain was seeping, icy, through his cloak and robes. Ignoring his sudden discomfort, Harry pushed the hood of his Invisibility Cloak down, squinting through fogged glasses around him.

"I don't want to fly all the way home!" Dudley shouted at a rock behind him.

"I'm here, Dud," Harry said loudly, having glimpsed his cousin's face by the rocks they'd sat at upon arrival.

"I don't have time for this." Harry muttered furiously, striding over to Dudley and pointing his wand at his cousin. Dudley, predictably, took a step back—and only succeeded in stumbling backwards over the very rock he had been yelling at a moment earlier.

"Merlin's balls—Dudley!" Harry exclaimed, reaching out and hauling his cousin upright again.

"I still don't want to fly all the way home!" Dudley shouted, his face contorted in an ugly grimace.

"Would you rather _oink_ for a living?" Harry snarled dangerously, aiming his wand between Dudley's eyes. Overhead, a bolt of lightning illuminated the scene for a split second, making Harry's eyes glint with a ghostly green glow.

Dudley whimpered, his hair plastered against his fat head, but had to admit defeat. He didn't want to be turned into a pig.

Personally, he preferred Harry invisible – he looked frightening, angry as he was. But he was also his ticket home, and Dudley wasn't stupid enough to miss his chance – what if they were attacked by wolves?

"Now stand still," Harry warned, maintaining a tentative hold on him anyway. "_Disillusio. Impervius. Levo Pondus_." The spells were cast in quick succession, and Harry tightened his hold on his cousin, who was now in danger of being blown away by the strong wind whipping his cloak around.

Harry gave a lopsided smile at the irony of the moment.

"Here. Mount this." He handed Dudley Sirius' broomstick. "_Adhaero_," he cast the Sticking Spell next, and Dudley flinched. "I'm not done yet – _iugo compescor _ten feet," said Harry, tapping his cousin's side and his own before letting go of him. They were now bound to one another with invisible chords.

Harry took a moment to re-cast the Disillusionment and Water-Repelling Charms on himself, shaking his now sodden bangs out of his eyes. Lightning clapped overhead, and he mounted his broom.

"Ready?" he called over the howling wind towards Dudley, who swallowed and said,

"Is this going to hurt?"

"_No_." Harry gestured at him with his left hand, gritting his teeth. This was not going to be easy— but it was the only thing he could think of at the moment.

He took a deep breath.

"_Corpus Levitas_."

Thunder rumbled ominously, followed by the clap of lightning, which illuminated the barren wasteland the very moment Harry kicked off the ground and sped towards Inverarray at last.

* * *

It was quite dark by the time they finally soared across the skies. Dudley was whimpering, clinging to the handle of his broomstick with such force Harry feared he might disintegrate it. Harry had given him the broom just so he had something to hold on to, but it was completely unnecessary; Harry was levitating him right by his side with his left hand, using his right to fly his broom and hold his wand at the same time.

He had never before attempted to wandlessly levitate something as large as Dudley, and it was proving a staggering effort, even with the Lightening Charm in place. Still, Harry felt like grinning. He was drenched to the bone, his feet were cold and his hands numb—but they were finally on the move, and that was what mattered.

Fog was forming below them, growing thicker as they advanced, and Harry suppressed a shiver as the feeling of being too much in the open caught him once more. A most unpleasant prickling in the back of his neck made him speed up, albeit marginally—he was flying positively slow for his usual standards, both due to the rain and to keep control of his cousin, but it soon became obvious to him he needed to speed up, unless he wanted to be blown off course by the increasingly strong wind that blew from the east.

He leaned forward slightly and flew on, ignoring Dudley's frightened yelp.

However, keeping Dudley in the air was draining Harry's energy faster than he had anticipated. His arm was cramping up, and he began to shake from the effort. Regardless, he flew onwards, knowing that stopping for a rest was out of the question. As much as he had deep misgivings against using his wand—it would be useless in case of an attack if he did, and somehow, he had a rather vivid mental picture of an ambush – he realised he would have to switch to levitating Dudley with his wand or walk the rest of the way. Sweat trickling down his back, Harry let go of the broom handle and recast the charm.

After that, flying became much easier. He sped up, eyes peeled for any sort of movement, losing all track of time.

All in all, Harry almost let out a triumphant shout when he made out a faint, flickering row of streetlamps ahead.

Almost.

His victorious cry died in his throat, and he slowed down until he was hovering in midair, the wind threatening to blow him off his broom. Harry did not care about the wind any more than he did about the rain still pouring down on them.

The flickering streetlamps here and there were the only sources of light as far as he could see.

Taking out his Omnioculars, he scanned every inch of the town ahead, stomach clenching into knots. His eyes wandered along the first row of houses and buildings, taking in the darkened windows and lack of cars in the drives. Everything looked so... empty. _Abandoned_ would come closest to describing the feeling emanating from what had simply seemed a sleepy town the day before.

_A power failure. Please, let it be a power failure..._

He made to lower the Omnioculars, when lightning illuminated the scene for a second—something caught his eye and he froze mid-movement.

A shadowy figure had been visible, for a split second only, on one of the rooftops. Harry did a double take, but when he looked again it was gone.

What was that? It had been too big for a person.

A Dementor? Were Dementors really that big? Maybe a troll? What if that thing had been a giant?

_Or... a trick of the light, perhaps...?_ His mind's voice was back, and he had to agree with it. Yes, it had probably been the fog... but...

_But what, Potter?_ He chided himself. _You're getting as paranoid as Mad-Eye here. That wasn't a Dementor, you'd have known. It's not like you haven't fought them before, is it?_

He was inclined to believe it had been a trick of the light, a shadow of something else and pointedly _not_ a Dementor. How far-reaching were Dementors' senses, anyway? Could they sense him two miles away?

He swallowed, half angry at himself already for loosing his nerve so fast and half intrigued as to what exactly had scared him. Could it have been a Dementor?

How far could the Dementors spread fear, anyway? Could _he_ sense them two miles away? His head swirling with questions upon questions he didn't have an answer for, he closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, his mind was made up. Without a warning, he switched yet again to a wandless levitation of his cousin and urged his broom forward in a gentle dive, Dudley following in his wake like a huge balloon.

"'S that the town?" Dudley asked in a voice that sounded entirely too loud to Harry's ears.

"Yeah. But it feels off, somehow. Abandoned." Harry's grip around his broomstick tightened, and he advanced flying as low as he dared, fairly pulling Dudley along by means of the Binding Charm.

"Doesn't seem abandoned to me," Dudley grunted. "There's got to be a store somewhere. Where's the train station?" Flying was not his thing.

"Dunno," Harry muttered, not really paying attention to Dudley's words. He was still scanning the deserted streets for any sign of life and seeing none. He flew over streets lined with shops, a school, several low buildings, all identical in their apparent lack of inhabitants. The place looked lived-in enough, though. What did this mean?

"Why don't we just call home?" Dudley suggested, clearly desperate to touch ground.

Harry turned to look at the spot he knew Dudley was, blinking. He hadn't thought of that.

"Look, we can ask those blokes there—"

"What blo—" Harry started, but cut himself off almost at once. Two figures were hurrying eastwards down a street, apparently dragging something big and bulky along. Harry brought the brooms to a stop, his heart pounding madly against his ribs, even as the figures disappeared from view. Either those were _really_ long coats, or the figures were wearing cloaks.

_What is going on here?_

The next moment, his stomach turned over.

There was a shrill cry, the likes of which he had never heard before—and a ghostly green light replaced the darkness for a long moment, magnified by the swirling fog and the rain. It threw the buildings into sharp relief, then disappeared.

Someone had cast a Killing Curse not a quarter mile away.

A yelp from Dudley jolted Harry back to his senses, and he managed to control the Levitation Charm before his cousin fell. Instinctively, Harry directed the brooms away from the source of the light, his mind devoid of any coherent thought except,

_Get out of here. Fast._

It proved easier said than done, though. Harry's left arm was painfully cramped, and the effort of keeping Dudley in the air was becoming impossible. And if those wizards were what he thought they were, he'd need full use of his wand soon.

He would have to land.

"Dud, I'm going to land away over there..." Harry said, surprising himself with the tightness of his voice. "I'm... really tired."

"About time too. I want to call mum." Dudley growled, not in the least put out by what had happened.

Without waiting any longer, Harry dove as quickly as he dared; he was risking dropping Dudley, and they hadn't survived this long just for him to concuss his fat cousin.

_Not that it would make him any **more** stupid than he already is, though,_ the little voice in his head commented.

Harry managed to land quietly in a narrow alleyway that was every bit as empty as the rest. No sooner had his feet touched ground, he sank down quite ungracefully, breathing heavily and shaking slightly.

Next to him, Dudley also touched ground, giving the term ungraceful a whole new meaning. He toppled over and landed in a heap with an "oomph!", still attached to the broomstick by the Sticking Charm.

More out of concern for the broom than his cousin's discomfort, Harry flicked his wrist and cancelled it, forcing himself to assume a sitting position. He shivered; despite the Water-Repelling Charms, he was drenched, not to mention freezing and covered in sweat. He hadn't realised the wandless magic had been this taxing. He barely could move his hand—his left arm felt as if he had been forced to polish the Trophy Room at Hogwarts without magic.

Which, incidentally, was one of the many things he'd rather be doing at the moment.

He looked around. The alley was pitch dark, but he could see just fine. There wasn't much to clap eyes on, however. An overturned, notoriously empty dumpster was all that caught his eye.

For his part, Dudley seemed quite eager to go. He felt around until he found Harry's foot and tugged.

"Make me visible again so I can go call mum," he said in his usual bossy tone.

"Shh!" Harry hissed, groping blindly until he found Dudley's collar and pulling him down. "You're not going anywhere, Dud. Now keep your voice down—we don't want to be seen!"

"B—"

"There are Death Eaters here. Now zip it. Understood?" Harry felt Dudley nod, and released the front of his Invisibility Cloak with enough deliberation to get his point across a bit further.

"All right," Dudley whispered, clearly shaken. He didn't really like invisible Harry, either. "I just don't want to go home on a broom."

"We'll see what we can find, then," Harry conceded, privately agreeing with his porky cousin. He had just flown little over thirteen miles with Dudley in tow, and ended up shivering and weak. He needed an alternative.

Harry adjusted his Invisibility Cloak around him once more and pocketed both brooms after quickly checking them for damage. Wand in hand and looking warily around, he grabbed Dudley by a shoulder and led the way out of the alley even as Dudley's watch chimed ten o'clock.

* * *

. 

Harry was made acutely aware of the lack of sound. There were no motor noises, no people speaking, no lights other than the faint yellow beams of the streetlamps. It was uncanny. Yet they walked down deserted streets, never hearing a sound beyond the dull fall of their footsteps, which were in turn nearly drowned out by the rain. It had now abated considerably but still fell, icy cold and steady, without a sign of relenting.

The silence around them was oppressive, and even Dudley forgot to whimper and gibber. The sensation of being in a graveyard increased with each step, but Harry couldn't think of any other way to go. If anything, they needed directions to carry on—they could be down in Sheffield, for all he knew.

They turned a corner and reached what looked like a main street, which housed what looked like the shopping area of the town, to judge by the many display windows lining the street on either side.

"Harry, this place gives me the creeps," Dudley whispered, waddling on after his cousin and taking care to stay as close to him as he could. Harry didn't answer, stopping by a newspaper stand, which appeared to have been deserted before closing time.

He had found what he was looking for.

Skimming over the dates, Harry grabbed himself a copy of the Inverarray Investigator, while Dudley's ham-like fists closed around as many chocolates and sweets he could reach. Harry let him, searching for the second-best thing to human directions—a map.

No sooner had he seen it, than he let it disappear in his robes' pockets, and dragged Dudley unceremoniously past a few shops and into a coffee shop that seemed to have an open door.

A swift glance inside revealed it to be empty, and a firm shove had Dudley inside. Yet another wary look around, and Harry closed the door behind him, cringing at the chime of an electric welcome bell. He cursed in a low voice, muttering a locking spell and drawing all curtains on the large windows closed before he trudged to a table and spread the newspaper before him. Dudley, catching on, turned the sign of the glass door to 'Closed'.

"Harry, let's get out of here," Dudley whinged, shivering in the near-complete darkness. Harry, however, did not move to turn on the lights. "this place is creepy..."

"I know. But I need to know what's going on here." The paper was dripping wet, but still readable. Harry's eyes scanned the front page.

What he read made his blood freeze in his veins.

"_Wednesday, July 17, 1996_

_**The Fear Disease?**_

_This morning, hundreds of inhabitants of Inverarray were stricken with inexplicable panic attacks and left the town, in the worst case of mass hysteria ever witnessed since the great Wave Storm of 1944. Experts in psychiatric science have hereto declared their confusion regarding this psychosis, which has taken hold of over one third of the population in this town during the past twenty-four hours._

_Dr. Med. Rowan McTabby, 73, head of the Casualty Unit of Our Saint's Hospital, declared that it had most likely to do with the inordinate amount of fish that abruptly changed their migration patterns and have fairly crowded the coastal waters since July the fifth. "We might have mistaken the sudden riches of the sea, and those fish are ill. The fishermen must have eaten some of those mad fish, and this is a bad case of food poisoning."_

_However, even although most of those afflicted with sudden panic were indeed amongst the fishermen, many others were seen dropping everything and fairly racing away from the town in a hurry._

_Marcus Tetley, 27, stated that he felt as if he would never be able to feel safe and happy again if he did not leave the town at once, before slamming the door of his car shut and driving away at full speed._

_Amongst those panic-ridden citizens who were stuck in traffic and did not abandon their vehicles then and there, many complained of a sudden loss of eyesight, nausea, clamminess, breathing problems coupled with terrible nightmares on the night prior. But these symptoms seem to worsen overnight. Some others were found wandering the streets, their eyes vacant, unable to utter a sound or react in any way..."_

Harry lowered the paper, feeling ill to his stomach. Dementors had been here, at least since July 16, and that was a week earlier. They seemed to have quite effectively rid the town of its entire population during the next few days—the paper he now held in his hands was the earliest he could find.

Why had Dementors attacked this place? And most importantly, why hadn't the Wizarding World caught on? Or even the Muggles? If an entire town was swiped clean all of a sudden over one week earlier, it should have made the news at _some_ point.

Harry was certain this event had not been in the Daily Prophet. He'd remember if it had been. Pausing for a moment to rub his eyes and check that they were alone, Harry pocketed the Inverarray Investigator and spread the map out on the table.

He remembered the figure he'd seen on the rooftop earlier and swallowed. They'd been really lucky not to have run headlong into the Dementors' hands so far. He shivered, gritting his teeth.

_Dementors feed on emotions, Potter,_ his mind's voice chided. _Don't give them a sodding beacon!_

Beside him, a rustling sound was heard, and he whipped around—only to find Dudley sinking his teeth into a recently unwrapped Mars bar from the pile he had filched.

_Not **that** stupid, are you, Dud?_ Harry thought wryly, watching his cousin's disillusioned form stuffing his face. The Night-Vision Charm was pretty amazing.

Wordlessly, he reached for a chocolate, ignoring the glare Dudley was most likely levelling at him and turning to the map.

It was a simple affair, clearly made for tourists, showing a street map of Inverarray on the one side and the British Isles on the other. Important museums, churches and other sites were marked with little symbols, as well as the major roads and cities. He perused it, relishing the warmth spreading out inside him with every bite of his Mars bar.

Harry had no trouble at all in finding Inverarray. It was marked with a bright yellow fish that grinned toothily at him.

It was also at the very top of the map.

Right underneath a lip of land called Cape Wrath.

Harry groaned aloud and banged his head on the table, making Dudley utter a startled noise.

"What?" Dudley demanded after swallowing a large chunk of his third chocolate.

"I just found out where we are." Harry's voice was muffled by the map.

"Well that's good, isn't it? Where are we?"

"We're on the bloody _top_ of the map," Harry mumbled tonelessly. "Any further north and we'd fall off the flaming edge of the earth."

"Er..."

"Not to mention we're in a godforsaken, _abandoned_ town that just shows up on this map because it was _printed_ here," Harry went on defeatedly. "It doesn't even have a train station." And_ it was emptied by Dementors, **and** Death Eaters are running rampant all over the place,_ he mentally added, banging his head against the table a couple of times for added effect.

_We're toast._

Dudley gaped at him, dumbstruck. His jaw was moving automatically, but it could either be out of a desire to speak or out of a large bite from a chocolate bar.

_How do I manage to get myself into these messes?_ Harry wondered sullenly, at a loss for anything more constructive to do or say.

He never could think of an answer to his own question.

Just as he was getting himself worked up into a suitable brooding frame of mind, the ground shook, nearly dislodging him from his seat.

_THUD._

It shook once more, rattling the windows and glass door.

Harry leapt to his feet, his wand in hand—

"EARTHQUAKE!" Dudley screamed at the top of his lungs, making a break for the door—and bringing Harry crashing to the ground after leaping forward a few paces. The Binding Charm was still active.

"Shut up!" Harry shouted, groping around in midair and finding the invisible rope that bound him to Dudley. He gave a mighty tug, and suddenly felt Dudley next to him.

_THUD._

A grunting noise was heard, too loud to make out any words, yet strikingly familiar to his ears...

_THUMP. THUD. THUMP. _The glasses and cups behind the counter fell crashing to the floor.

Lightning flashed, and for a brief moment, Harry could make out a shadow moving outside, too large to be a man, too clumsy in its movements to be a Dementor—

"What's that?" Dudley whispered, aghast.

"Dunno. Something big," Harry said shakily, his mind racing to identify the shadow and coming up empty. He did not have long to wonder.

Framed in the doorway, only a few feet and one glass door away from them, the figure raised a longish something, bringing it down on the glass pane with an almighty _CRASH_ that drowned out Dudley's panicked scream.

_Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger._

Harry pulled his cousin lower, clamping one of his hands over Dudley's mouth.

"Stay down. Shut up. And _don't move_!" Harry hissed, raising his head over the back of the corner seat they had been occupying. Dudley whimpered and recoiled underneath the table, even as a huge head poked through the gap the door had previously occupied, letting out a deafening roar.

Harry's eyes were wide as saucers, but he didn't have to see the figure to identify it. The smell alone was indication enough, bringing back vivid memories of his first year.

The troll advanced heavily, tearing down the curtains as it went, undisturbed by the shards of glass raining down on it.

Harry watched it enter the coffee shop, not moving an inch. Beside him, Dudley was shaking madly. He seemed to be crying, whimpering quietly.

Harry rolled his eyes, turning his attention to the matter at hand.

The troll's club was up in the air again. Harry doubted it could see or hear them, but that didn't prevent it from demolishing the entire place in its search for whoever had just yelled. Why hadn't he thought of placing a Silencing Charm on the place?

One thing was clear: it was going to tear the place to bits.

The troll also happened to be blocking the only way out.

The club swung a wide circle, knocking over chairs and tables as it went, only to land heavily on the counter with another loud _CRASH_. The troll took a step forward, stopping short at the electric chime that issued from the door.

Harry knew he had to do something. Hiding would get them nowhere. He grabbed Dudley's shoulder, deciding that they could edge past the troll's back. The club smashed into the counter yet again, and the troll roared once more. Harry tugged harder, but Dudley seemed to have frozen in place. No amount of hissing, pushing or even pinching brought him out of his stupor—

"Dudley, you stupid, fat idiot, _move_!" Harry hissed, ducking in time to avoid being hit by the club as it swung backwards to land against the mirror behind the bar. The troll was busy wrecking the counter, now was their chance— "Come _ON_!"

It was useless. Harry glared at Dudley, who gaped at the monster before him, his face shiny with tears. His mind provided an ample range of expletives, none of which would help him out at the moment.

_Ah, well_, the little voice in his mind provided, admitting defeat before it went blank.

_Right_. First he needed a distraction. But what?

_Something big._

_SMASH_. Roar. A table went sailing overhead, disintegrating on the far wall. Dudley jumped and gibbered.

Harry's hand disappeared inside his dragonhide case, and unearthed a handful of Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-Bangs.

_Why not?_ A slow grin spread across his face. If he managed to pull this one off, he'd be the Weasley Twins' slave for eternity.

Harry started crawling out from underneath the table, rolling away from the cash machine the troll had held in its hands mere instants earlier—and was suddenly held back by an invisible rope.

_Damn this ten times stupid Binding Charm! Finite!_

He narrowly dodged a crate of beer that followed the cash register, and began to approach the troll, which was presently turning the tables into toothpicks. Rolling to the left, Harry avoided the club once more, leaping to his feet as fast as he could, not caring if he was hit by the debris filling the air— Roar. _Smash_.

He was behind the troll, eyes watering at the pungent smell of dirty toilets mixed with old rubbish, but he did not care—blinking to dispel the blur in his vision, he muttered a Sticking Charm and attached the handful of Whiz-Bangs to the filthy loincloth level with his face. The troll turned right—aiming for the table Dudley was cowering beneath—the club went up—and the whole world erupted into brightly-coloured sparks.

There was a deafening howl, and the troll began flailing wildly, trying to get rid of whatever was burning its bum. Harry rolled to the left, suddenly aware that he had once more become visible—and so had Dudley. Ducking from the troll's flaming behind, he caught a glimpse of the big lump retreating _deeper_ into the coffee shop.

"No, you idiot! Over here!" Harry gritted out, his heart pumping madly against his ribcage. The troll was tearing at its back, still roaring loud enough to wake the dead—and suddenly a Catherine Wheel broke free from the Sticking Charm and whizzed past, writing the words "_KAZOOM KABOOM KAZOOM!_" in bright purple smoke. The troll smashed a burning hand into the wall, making everything rattle, and Harry narrowly avoided being hit on the head by a lamp.

Struck by sudden inspiration, Harry pointed his wand at the whizzing firework, shouting,

"_Evanesco_!"

The ensuing display would have made the Weasley Twins proud; eleven Catherine Wheels were now bouncing off every surface, whizzing around the room at breakneck speed and emitting sharp whistling noises, spelling out rude words and colliding amongst themselves with shrill cries of "WHEEE!"

Harry ducked and dodged his way towards Dudley, resisting the urge to cover his ears.

The ground shook as the troll fell on its back, trying to put out the fire on its rear and to swipe at the flying fireworks at the same time.

Harry didn't see it coming.

A hand as big as Hagrid's contacted with his chest, sending him flying backwards against the wall, even as the troll scrambled to its feet, rounding in on him.

There was no time to think. Harry raised his wand—

"_Reducto_!" Bright light left his wand, connecting with the troll's bald pate—and ricocheted off it, hitting the ceiling instead. For a second, everything stood still. Harry saw a huge crack forming right above the troll's head—he backed away one step.

_Dudley! _

Even as time sped up once more, Harry saw the ceiling begin to crumble—and did the only thing he could.

He leapt outside, but his mouth and body seemed to have acquired a mind of their own. He heard his voice shout, "_Accio_ Dudley!"—he felt his wand arm shoot forward even as the rest of him flew out of the coffee shop—and was promptly bowled over by what felt like an enormous cannon ball the very instant the ceiling caved in on top of the troll.

A cloud of dust burst out of the shop, mingling with the fog permeating the still deserted street.

With a great heave, Harry peeled his cousin off him and sat up. Howls and roars still could be heard from what had moments earlier been a shop, but was now reduced to rubble.

Hopefully heavy rubble.

"C'mon," he muttered, dragging Dudley to his feet and looking warily around. The back of his neck was prickling ominously, and he felt suddenly cold.

Oh, joy.

"_C'mon_!" he repeated, grabbing Dudley's collar and sprinting down the street, away from the troll.

The ground was shaking again, and suddenly the whole town seemed to be alive with harsh cries and furious roars.

Harry looked back, and saw three, no—four... five...

_Gods._

No less than a dozen huge trolls were pounding the street he and Dudley had just left, and moments later, the sight of the Catherine Wheels rising up in the air and flying eastwards told him the troll had been freed.

Harry lost all track of time. He didn't know how long he'd run before he dared to stop and take a breather, turning a corner at another street that was lined with pubs, and into a dank, dark alleyway.

Panting, he leaned against the wall, and watched Dudley sink to the ground next to an evil-smelling, overflowing dumpster.

"That was close," he muttered, adjusting his Invisibility Cloak around his legs and screwing up his face at the smell of rotting rubbish. "Merlin, this smells worse than the troll..."

"Wh—what was that... that thing?" Dudley squeaked out. Harry had never before seen him shaking so hard. However, his voice was strangely calm as he answered.

"A mountain troll," Harry informed matter-of-factly, "and it seems we got away just in time, too."

Dudley gave a shaky, sob-like laugh.

"What now, Harry?" he asked after a while.

"Now we have to get out of here," came the obvious answer. "I just wish I had brought the map." Where to get another one?

"H... here." The said piece of paper was suddenly right under his nose. "I... I took it before it smashed the table."

Harry regarded Dudley intensely for a moment, looking as if he were about to kiss him. Which he would have, had Dudley been less piggy, nicer, and a girl to boot. A relieved grin spread across his face, and he took the offered piece of paper, crouching down beside his cousin to peruse it once more.

"I guess our best chance is to head south to this place called Ullapool. It looks like a big town—" Harry said, frowning, his eyes still gleaming ghostly green in the darkness.

"Where? I can't see a thing," Dudley grunted, his mouth full of candy once more. He suddenly stiffened, his face losing the little colour it had regained. "You don't want to fly all the way there, do you?"

"Unless you have a better idea..." Harry growled, glaring at Dudley, who backed off, but did not hold his mouth.

"I don't want to fly on your stupid broomstick!"

"It's all we've got, all right?" Harry snapped back angrily. Why did Dudley have to make the simplest things so blasted difficult? "It's not like you have to do anything to fly anyway."

"But it's seventy miles away!" Dudley cried, jabbing his fat finger at the map.

"I know it, dammit!" Harry erupted. "And believe me, if I could get hold of a better solution, I—" He stiffened, suddenly realising his breath was coming out in wisps of vapour. It was freezing cold.

_Dudley could not see a thing._ Harry hadn't noticed the absolute darkness surrounding them... until now.

Dudley's breath was coming in fast gasps.

"H—Harry..." he whispered, "There's something..."

Harry felt the approaching figures more than he heard them, but had no time to move. Something nudged his back, strong enough to send him sprawling, face forward, to the ground.

* * *

TBC.

Please review!


	13. A Sort of Homecoming

**Disclaimer: Just think. If this were mine, I'd be currently touring the world in my private jet... :dreamy sigh: I like airplanes. And travelling.**

**Dedication:** To you folks. If it weren't for your support and feedback, your nagging and threats, your outraged cries and generally passionate comments, I'd take my jolly good time to update.

P.S. Japs, I loffs you too! That rec just about made my day:huggles:

Padawan-Jan: What can I say? Thanks a ton for the s'more stick image. It will stay forever in my mind: glomps repeatedly yet again :

Yes, I meant to type it like that.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen – A Sort of Homecoming **

"I refuse to just sit here and wait." Lupin's eyes were flashing dangerously, his tones clipped as he glowered at Kingsley Shacklebolt, who seemed to have taken it unto him to stop the werewolf from doing something stupid.

Snape had returned to Hogwarts to await further instructions from Malfoy, accompanied by Dumbledore and Moody, who would receive the first notice and pass it on to the remaining members.

Remus Lupin, for one, was not very pleased with the state of things.

His entire bearing was shockingly different from his usual calm self; he irradiated a restless energy that was, for lack of a better word, frightening. The younger members of the Order seemed most taken aback by this change: they had never before seen this side of him... but the older ones had, once or twice, long ago.

In their eyes it was, in fact, nothing short of a miracle that Lupin had not stormed out of the door the minute Dumbledore had left—but he had always been much more rational than most. It had been probably the very direct influence of his headstrong friends which had led him to more reckless behaviour in the past, and times had changed.

Now there was no James Potter to back Lupin's statements, no Sirius Black to lead the way outside with that once commonly-heard "Sod this." he favoured as parting phrase if things were becoming stagnant.

As if they would have sat tight and waited for Dumbledore and Moody to give the all-clear if they had been present. They'd have gone out on a mad hunt the instant _Harry_ had disappeared, not in the least concerned by whatever arguments were used against their chosen course of action. Potter, Black and Lupin were well-known, in their day, for flouting the most direct of orders if they believed it was the right thing to do.

Times changed.

That did not prevent them from remembering.

"Snape said we would only draw attention on young Potter if we started stirring things up." Shacklebolt tried, yet again, to sway the werewolf. This argument had gone on long enough.

They had been told to wait for an update, hopefully to reach a decision regarding the possible course of action. Tensions were running high, and all present were tired, worried, not to mention disgruntled—and Lupin seemed ready to lash out at anyone who would oppose him.

"Whatever _he_ said is irrelevant." Lupin glared at the Auror. "It is clear to _me_ that Harry needs help—_now_."

"Remus, it is for the best—" Mundungus started, without real conviction. He hated to wait as much as Lupin did, but they did not even have a clear idea of what to do next. Waiting for more information was the only thing they could do.

"Remus," Shacklebolt snapped, losing his patience. "You told us yourself _you do not remember _where it is Harry apparated to!"

"I'm not staying here to wait for Harry to magically show up, just because Voldemort pitched a spaz!" Lupin shouted furiously, leaping to his feet and taking his tattered overcoat in his hand with a rough gesture that made Shacklebolt back off. "We have a narrow enough search perimeter! We can just—"

_Crash._

"Tonks!" Molly exclaimed, jumping back from the hot liquid that spread across the tabletop from what had until recently been a teacup.

"Sorry." Tonks rescued the map they had been poring over from getting wet, going pink in the face and avoiding Molly's sudden glare.

"You freaks of nature, destroying my household—" a furious mutter from the far corner made the wizards and witches turn around. Vernon Dursley had gotten to his feet, and was presently jabbing his finger accusingly at them, his face working madly.

"That—_that_ was Petunia's _favourite_ cup!" he shouted, his moustache, which was already missing a fair few tufts, catching bits of spit. "I shall not tolerate you all destroying my house and—drinking _tea_!"

"We can fix it—_reparo_. See?" Arthur waved his wand at the cup, which came together again, and looked at the beefy man before him in what he clearly thought to be an ingratiating and reassuring manner.

"I WANT YOU LOT OUT OF MY HOUSE! BRING MY SON BACK! IT'S ENTIRELY THAT BRAT'S FAULT HE'S GONE MISSING—AND I WILL NOT HAVE ANY OF THIS— RUDDY—TOSH ANYMORE!" Vernon boomed, his face a deep shade of purple, the man's infamous flying spittle showering Arthur, who backed away one step, wiping his forehead.

Nobody seemed to notice the sudden thinning of the group, as Lupin rolled his eyes and left the house, soon to be followed outside by two redheads in lurid green jackets.

"NOW LISTEN HERE, YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A MUGGLE—DON'T YOU LABEL OUR MAGIC AS _TOSH_!" Molly leapt to her feet, her last remnants of patience gone. Her voice was so loud the cups rattled in their saucers, but Vernon Dursley seemed to have lost all fear of magic. He towered over the plump witch and bellowed,

"DON'T SAY THE **M-WORD** IN THIS HOUSE!"

Molly grew red in the face, her expression similar to a steam pot about to explode. She had been wanting to have a go at Harry's relatives for years now, and, in her opinion, the timing could not have been better.

"Molly, the Muggle-Wizard relations..." Arthur admonished, shrinking back as his wife rounded in on him instead, somehow even angrier than before he opened his mouth.

"OH, _MUGGLE-WIZARD RELATIONS_, YOU SAY? _COOPERATION, _YOU SAY? SO YOUR IDEA OF _COOPERATION_ IS TO ALLOW THIS—" She gestured towards the corner, where Petunia was trying to calm her husband down, "THIS _MAN_ TO THROW INSULTS AT US LIKE A RAMPAGING RHINOCEROS WHILE _WE_ SMILE BACK AT HIM! AFTER ALL THEY HAVE DONE TO HARRY, YOU STILL DEFEND THEM!"

"DO NOT CALL ME A RHINOCEROS, YOU FREAK!" Vernon Dursley's voice boomed across the garden, where Lupin surveyed the twins gravely.

"Your mother is going to kill you." Lupin said firmly, shaking his head at the twins. "I think you should stay."

"And wait for the proper alignment of the planets to go look for Harry?" Fred scoffed, drawing his wand. "You said it yourself—Harry needs our help _now_."

"DON'T YOU DARE RAISE YOUR VOICE AT ME—THAT FAT WALRUS OF A SON YOU HAVE IS THE REASON HARRY IS IN TROUBLE TO BEGIN WITH!"

"Besides, it's not like mum's not busy enough," he added with a grin, jabbing his thumb at the furious shouting coming from the dining room. "_And_ it's not like we're entirely useless, either."

"Yeah, you need our expertise in this area," George quipped, closing the main door behind him. "You can't do this on your own."

Lupin regarded them for a moment, and finally gave them a grateful smile. With a nod, they made their way towards the street.

"Oy, wait up!" a voice called urgently, and Fred spun around, in time to be bowled over by Tonks, who tripped and went flying against him—stuffing the magical map she had been holding in his face.

"Sorry," she mumbled, raffling herself up and helping the spluttering Fred to his feet.

"Merlin, Tonks—you're a menace," Fred muttered, but he was grinning. His grin died, however, when he heard someone else approaching.

"Fred... George." Bill's voice was grave, and one they did _not_ want to hear at the moment.

"We are going. You can't stop us." George said at once. Both twins glared at their eldest brother, identical mulish expressions on their faces. Bill, in turn, merely surveyed his brothers with a shake of his head and a chuckle.

"Who said I was going to stop you? I'm coming along."

"OH YEAH? I DON'T SEE ANY OF YOU LOT TRYING TO BRING DUDDERS BACK, YOU USELESS HOODLUMS ARE ONLY HERE TO—TO _EAT_ MY GOOD FOOD AND _LOITER_ IN MY HOUSE!"

"They're really getting into it, aren't they?" Tonks commented, her eyebrows raised.

"If that fat uncle of Harry's goes on like that, mum's going to make mince out of him," George agreed.

"A _lot_ of mince." said Fred, snickering.

"Serves that muggle right, mind." Bill asked, closing the door with a wave of his hand and shutting the furious shouting in. He led the way to Magnolia Crescent, where they would apparate.

"What are we waiting for, again?" George asked impatiently the second they had arrived and made sure they had not been followed or seen.

"For Tonks to get the Apparition coordinates," said Lupin, sounding much more like his usual collected self.

"Uh... right, I would be the one, wouldn't I?" Tonks spread the crumpled map wide. "Whereabouts then, Remus?"

"Scourie, if you please."

* * *

"My Lord and Master, I am humbly at your service." The Death Eater sank respectfully to his knees, awaiting acknowledgement before approaching the most feared wizard of all time and kissing the hem of his robes.

Voldemort regarded him, visibly pleased.

After all, the man before him irradiated power, strength of will and tenacity rivalling even his most faithful of followers. He also performed every detail of the required etiquette with the meticulous dedication he showed in every other aspect of his work.

Rasmus was indeed an asset to his ranks, one with the sufficient skill and passion to do what was required from him. One that was, beyond doubt, _truthful_ in every one of his statements, to his Lord and Master, at least—but that was enough for Voldemort. He had never enforced loyalty to anything other than him, and him alone.

The fact that Rasmus could face his sudden summons without fear was indication of his rank and status. He knew where he stood – well under his Lord's protection – and yet he still managed to grovel in a positively _classy_ manner.

_The likes of Lucius and that good-for-nothing Wormtail could learn a lesson from this one_, thought Voldemort, his lips quirking upwards.

"Rise, my friend."

"Thank you, my Lord and Master." The Death Eater rose unhurriedly, lifting his head and meeting Voldemort's fear-inspiring gaze steadily, and waited for his Master to speak first.

"Tell me of your progress, my friend," came the hissed demand, and Rasmus acknowledged it with an elegant bow of his head.

"I have managed to disable all outer layers of wards, and the first of the three inner circle," he informed. "However, the remaining two layers are old and strong. I have as yet to find the source to which they link."

"Can you break them?"

"Certainly, but we risk being sensed if we act rashly. It might take longer than expected, my Lord." Rasmus replied. "They are woven with a skill I have never before seen; it is almost _a pity_ to break them," he added, his steel-blue eyes glinting with cold satisfaction.

Voldemort nodded; he had not expected any less. Not from this man.

"The old man?"

"Oblivious, as you requested." The answer was prompt. "The insiders planted the illusions, but they seem to have proven superfluous so far."

"How so?"

"The household retired to bed one hour ago. We have already begun the extraction, my Lord."

"Good, good. What of the elves? Did you use the Imperius Curse on them?" Voldemort did not bother to hide his curiosity, which peaked at Rasmus' chuckle.

"No, my Lord," he said with a confidence that could only hold good news. "We used Polyjuice Potion. The insiders provided us with the necessary elements, and thus the elves were fooled. We had them round up the beasts and bring them beyond the wards. They have been disposed of."

"Brilliant." A thin-lipped smile.

"I have brought you the first fruits of the raid; I trust they shall live up to your expectations." The Death Eater gestured to a large, studded crate behind him.

"Show me."

* * *

Harry raised his head, staring right into Dudley's panicked face and feeling the rain fall cold down the back of his collar. Dudley's eyes were fixed upon something beyond Harry, threatening to pop out of their sockets if they went any wider.

_Wait just one second..._

_Muggles can't see Dementors._

Something was shifting behind Harry, and he knew it was something large.

_Not a Dementor. _He'd have felt it, he'd have _known_...

Gripping his wand, not daring to breathe, Harry turned his head slowly, dreading to see... Lightning flashed overhead, giving some blinding light to the scene.

His heart stopped beating; his eyes grew at least as wide as Dudley's. All he could see was silver. A huge muzzle with large nostrils nudged his cheek, tickling it. Harry whipped around completely, jerking away from whatever was—_pushing_ against his neck now, its warm breath steaming up in the cold.

The alleyway they were in was blocked by a horse.

A positively large, _winged_ horse stood before him, shining brightly silver in the darkness. If he hadn't felt the warmth of its breath, he would have thought it was a Patronus. It wasn't the skeletal, dragon-like Thestral type, no. Nor the huge, fire-breathing Abraxan, which Madame Maxime had brought to Hogwarts in his fourth year.

But a winged horse nonetheless.

It nudged his head, nearly knocking his glasses off, and impatiently stomped its hooves on the littered ground, giving Harry an equally impatient snort when he continued to look shocked and didn't move.

Harry's heart remembered to beat again, and his mind, which had, as per usual, run for cover, started racing to catch up with the batch of new information it needed to process. Seeing as his brain was duly occupied, the rest of Harry righted his glasses and went to his feet, causing the horse to throw its head up and back up a step.

Behind it, there were some protesting snorts, and Harry peered as unobtrusively as he dared over the neatly-folded wings to glimpse another silver tail swishing left and right, and a smaller, black one behind that. The three horses seemed to be trying to squeeze themselves in the narrow alleyway.

As quietly as possible, Harry took a step back, eliciting a whimper from Dudley. He fairly dug his heel into his cousin's side, causing him to scoot deeper into the row.

The foremost horse advanced, and so did the other two.

Now the initial shock was overcome, Harry found himself at a complete loss what to do, not having had any previous experience with any such animals, except for the meat-eating Thestrals and the fire-breathing Abraxans, that was. If these were even remotely similar to the other types he knew, it was not really an encouraging thought. They could well be vicious creatures for all he knew.

If they turned out to be aggressive, he and Dudley were quite effectively trapped.

In a smelly row.

In the middle of a ghost town.

Which was at the _top_ of the ruddy map.

Where trolls ran rampant, along with Dementors. Where Death Eaters – what else could those wizards have been? – dragged large, bulky beings around and cast Killing Curses on them.

Not daring to blink, and indeed not knowing what else to do, Harry bowed as if he were faced with a Hippogriff, figuring that, if it worked with Buckbeack and _he_ was half a horse, he might have more luck in ingratiating the beast before him.

He didn't expect the large head to approach him from below and rub itself against his chest, making him straighten up in a positively desperate gesture of a... _nuzzle_?

"Er... hello there," Harry said nervously, suppressing a start. He didn't know whether it would be better to run from the horse or pet it; the latter seemed to be the better option, though.

He gingerly ran a hand over the smooth, velvety fur, taking in the chiselled ears and silver-white mane that fell over deep, intelligent eyes. The horse didn't give the slightest hint of aggressiveness towards him.

It _felt_ rather familiar... A strange sense of déja-vu took hold of him, and he had a flash of the same mane, the same eyes looking at him, urging him to mount before he hit the ground, a goose in his hand—he shook his head to clear it, his neck prickling ominously, in time with his scar.

Harry's eyes wandered over the animal's body, noticing that it looked little like the majestic horse from his dream. It was drenched, for one, there was a deep, oozing welt around the arched neck and here and there he saw cuts and what looked like whip marks on the trembling flanks. The horse smelled of smoke, and was plainly afraid. Upon closer inspection, the other ones seemed to suffer from the same affliction.

"What happened to you?" Harry whispered, gingerly touching the welt on its neck. The horse flinched back, throwing its head up and towering over him for a moment. Harry hastily shushed it, trying to sound comforting while keeping as quiet as possible.

"There, there, I'm not going to hurt you," he said as soothingly as he could, tracing his hand up and down the long neck. This seemed to calm the trembling a bit, and mere moments later the head rested against his shoulder in an odd form of an embrace.

What was going on here? Trolls, Dementors, Death Eaters... and now winged horses that he'd seen in a dream walking about in an empty town.

As if in response, another unearthly cry resounded across the deserted streets, piercing and shrill. Harry's head shot upwards, in time to catch a glimpse of green light reflected on the low clouds overhead. The horses gave a start and began to shiver.

Harry's heart began to race. He licked dry lips, a scrap of information coming to mind, as if from another lifetime. If Thestrals had this uncanny sense of orientation...

Hope sparked.

"Can you take us to Surrey?" he asked the horse, his hands automatically soothing it into something resembling calmness, while those deep eyes bored into his. The horse blinked once, and he took it as an affirmative answer. "It's to the south," he said, beckoning Dudley to approach.

"Dud... Dud! Come on, we're out of here."

"I—I said I wasn't going to fly anywhere!" Dudley shrieked from the corner he was presently trying to fit himself in. Harry rolled his eyes.

_Coward._

"You said _no broomsticks_, and _this_ isn't a broom," Harry replied wryly. Then, seeing as Dudley contented himself with staring daggers at him but did not otherwise move, he added, "Suit yourself. I'm leaving. You can stay, if you want—I'm sure the troll will enjoy your company, Popkin, seeing as your IQ is similar and all."

It worked.

"Shut your face!" Dudley shouted. Calling him Popkin always seemed to elicit the same, immediate reaction. He then snarled out a rather unflattering comment, peeling himself from the ground and approaching the horse with a scowl on his face. "I want the—"

"Shut up and get on the second one," Harry said, using a trash bin to mount. Moments later, he was back on the ground, trying not to burst out laughing while helping Dudley scramble to get his overlarge bum on the second horse. Which, he noted, was not too happy about the turn of events.

"Don't let him fall off," Harry told the horse, patting its neck. Its ears were thrown back and it gave a little snort. Probably its version of an eye roll.

"Be careful not to touch the wounds on its neck, Dud," Harry warned, once he was safely on his own horse's back. Dudley did not answer.

A couple of precautory Disillusionment Charms and an awkward reverse manoeuvre later, they left the row.

Harry barely had time to marvel at the way his knees hugged the horse's sides, or at the nearly soundless fall of its hooves. As soon as they were out of the narrow confines of the alleyway, his horse cantered down the still deserted street, spread its ten-foot-long wings wide—and a sudden rush told him they were airborne.

This was great, quite unlike riding Buckbeak, and much more comfortable than the bony Thestrals. It was also faster.

Times were definitely looking up.

"Dud, are you still here?" Harry called, even as he shot upwards at an amazing speed.

"Ye-e-es!" Dudley yelped as the other horses mimicked Harry's. A few, very cold and wet moments later, they shot out above the fat rain clouds, and Harry had to squint in the sudden bright moonlight. They bore a southwards course, and Harry could see the extent of the storm, which seemed to be quickly moving towards the north and away from the town, which remained shrouded in a light, eerie mist.

_A gnarled hand on his shoulder, as heavy as the burden entrusted to him._

"_You know what is at stake. **Protect your brother**." Green eyes bored into his, reminding him of his duty. _

"_Yes, Sir." He successfully kept his voice from shaking._

"_At **all** costs." The tone was grave, almost threatening._

"_Aye, and if it kills me." _

_The old man gave a grim smile, his expression... _triumphant

"_And if it kills you."_

Harry gasped, blinking to dispel both the vision and the sense of urgency and dread that had suddenly taken hold of him, making his heart pump, if possible, even faster.

His eyes wandered uneasily over the moonlit scene, which was silent as a grave, yielding mute testimony of what had happened here:

Right below him, a roundabout showed the last signs of the frantic emptying of the town; cars stood abandoned all over the place, some even in the middle of the grassy circle, which was blocked by an overturned lorry. A little further ahead, he saw a fire truck had crashed into a long queue of cars, most of which sported open doors. A sign reading "WELCOME TO INVERARRAY" had been dislodged from its place, and ended up, bent and trodden upon, in the middle of the road, as if it too had made a bid for freedom.

Harry looked around, shivering a little. Even though he had as yet not so much as seen the hem of a Dementor's cloak, they had left enough signs in their wake to make him deeply uncomfortable. The freezing cold he usually associated with them permeated the place, a constant reminder of their presence.

They _were_ there, lurking, waiting... For what, he did not want to find out.

His Omnioculars left his pocket, and he scanned the horizon, with the intention of spotting any possible perils. He turned his eyes to the stormy sea, lingering for a few moments on the rolling waves before raising the Omnioculars a fraction—he froze.

There, barely visible in the distance, he saw an island... and the dark fortress atop it. His mind supplied a name.

Azkaban.

_Just get away from here—_

A sharp cry was heard to his right, bloodcurdling and piercing now they were airborne. Harry jumped, gripping his Omnioculars tightly.

Whipping his head towards the noise, a bright something caught Harry's attention. He could see a couple of large purple bonfires that issued thick clouds of black smoke, down by what looked like a wharf, and many dark figures scuttling around, sending jets of light against a jerking mass of something he could not recognise.

Focusing his Omnioculars lower, Harry scanned the pier, his heart thumping against his ribs. What met his eyes made his pulse race and his hands begin to prickle numbly.

Cloaked figures, over a dozen of them, were moving fast around a group of winged horses, which were bound by glowing blue ropes. Some were the same silver shade of the ones he had found, others black in the darkness, yet all frantically fighting to get away from their bonds. Some of the wizards were levitating a large, black, shapeless lump and tossed it in the fire, causing the flames to rise and cast a ghostly glow over the scene. Harry saw three detach themselves from the group, carrying what looked like... he could not make out the shape. He twiddled the dial and focused the lenses—

Severed wings.

A head, trailing what could only be a spinal chord, still dripping blood...

Harry's scar seared, making him brace himself against his horse's invisible neck.

"_The illusion did not work?" Harry shouted in outrage at the face shrouded in green vapour issuing from his pale hand._

"_The old man knovs," Rasmus answered, his bafflement evident even in the blurry image the vapour provided. He was distressed, and his native accent was stronger in his urgency. "I don't knov why, but the illusion did not vork as intended. The old man vas fooled, but something happened. There is much shouting coming from the house."_

"_What did you do?"_

"_I contained them. They cannot leaf, not anyvhere, but ve need a distraction. The old man might haff the vards up again in a few hours othervise."_

"_Good. I shall send you a distraction. Do not fail me!" Harry hissed sharply, dispelling the last words from his servant with a wave of his hand, his irritation replaced by a cold smile. "The Dementors shall have something to feed on, after all."_

It lasted no more than a few seconds. Harry forced his streaming eyes open, in time to see the remaining figures closing in on the group of panicking horses—the foremost of them raised his wand, and one of the blue ropes detached itself from wherever it was bound and dragged one of the silver horses forward—it struggled frantically to get away, to no avail—

The wizard's arm moved in a sharp jabbing gesture... a large, fire-red claw left his wand—it reached its target... there was a shrill cry, and the wizard suddenly held a still pulsating, bowling-ball sized thing in his hand, even as the horse crumbled bonelessly to the ground, dark jets of blood spurting everywhere—

Harry's eyes widened in horror, riveted on the scene, unable to look away from the butchery going on below, as yet another rise of the purple flames engulfed what moments earlier had been a living being

He did not notice the subtle change of course, the shifting of the wind that suddenly blew in his face, bringing with it the smell of burning, of blood, of death.

Until he realised his Omnioculars were useless—they were _approaching_ the pier instead of flying away from it. And it was getting steadily colder, darker.

It was suddenly so dark, in fact, that he could not even see the moon shining overhead.

Fear gripped him.

Below, the horses felt it too. Their panicked whinnies rent the air as they doubled their efforts to flee, mingled with loud curses thrown by the Death Eaters.

"No! _NO_! Go back! Go south! It's the other way round!" Harry shouted frantically, trying to get the horse to turn. It was headed straight towards the fires, carrying him towards the group of black-robed people casting spells left and right, closer to the gathering mass of Dementors that seemed to spring from nowhere and headed to the exact point where Harry was being taken.

Somewhere behind him, Dudley screamed.

* * *

"Go to bed. You shall serve your punishment tomorrow."

"Yes, Sir." He kept his head bowed as the aged wizard left the room, but the gesture was not born out of deference. Had he levelled such a scorching glare at his Gramps as he was presently giving the floor, he would likely not live to see the morning.

Knowing he was being closely watched, he took a deep breath, careful to keep both his expression inscrutable and his footfall soundless as he passed the portraits lining the corridors, ignoring the snide remarks and curious looks sent his way. He did not stop until he reached his chambers and slipped noiselessly inside. Chris would surely want to know what had happened—Gramps never drew a punishment out for so long.

Things were usually tackled head on, dealt with in the old wizard's unique style, and done with. Today was different. Certainly, _he_ had been dealt with— was _being_ dealt with. Probably would be, for the rest of his life. He might not show it sometimes, like that morning, for example, but he was anything but stupid.

This would not end here.

There was a soft noise on the other side of the wall, the tell-tale rasp of the linking passage being opened.

He did the only sensible thing he could at the moment: he strode to his third-storey window and opened it, slipping out onto the narrow ledge in a swift, practiced movement, and pulled himself upwards on the roof, arms trembling from the effort and his every fibre protesting at the motions he was subjecting his body to.

He preferred the pain to the alternative.

His brother was coming, and he would want answers he could not give. At the moment, he was unable to cook up the lamest of excuses.

He scrambled along the roof, cursing his stupidity for the hundredth time that day, whilst turning a deaf ear to the soft call of his name that somehow hurt more than the thorough belting he had received.

_Go away. You can't help me._

Fearing the other would follow, he made his way to the West Tower as fast as he could and lowered himself on a narrow ledge that was conveniently hidden from view. It provided, perhaps, barely space enough for him to sit, not to mention that it was exposed to the strong wind coming from the sea, cold and biting. Conversely, it also provided the much needed isolation; the only way he could be spotted was if someone clambered onto the roof of Stable One and peered up at him, and at this time of night, the chances of such a thing happening were about as likely as the Chudley Cannons winning the League this year.

He shifted his position, leaning against the wall and hugging his knees to his chest, teeth clenched at the pain searing across his back. It was the least of his troubles, however.

It had seemed such a good idea at the time, sky diving.

He snorted derisively, banging his head against the wall. He had forgotten Gramps had set the wards lower after that fire had broken out on Stable Four. He had not spared them a second thought and jumped up at once when the other suggested to turn the routine exercise of their horses into something more alluring.

He ought to have known better, dammit!

It had simply slipped his mind, bypassed as another of the many features of the ancient place, unimportant in their familiarity. Not anymore, though. He now knew the reasons for the wards.

He felt the strong wind ruffle his hair, icy and as unyielding as the old wizard's glare, bringing rain with it. Once, he had come here in need of solitude and found comfort in the gusts of wind whipping his robes around. Not anymore.

He had fallen from grace, irrevocably at that.

The droplets of water from above grew in size and number, and his hair was soon dripping wet, as was the rest of him. Yet he refused to move from the spot, even though he was shaking. Of anger, pain or cold, he could not tell. Maybe all three.

It did not matter.

He wrenched his streaming eyes shut, fighting the tears that nevertheless continued to fall, mingling with the rainwater on his face, only to be blown away by the relentless wind. He gave a sigh, somehow feeling his childhood flow out of him with every breath.

Knowledge.

It was his punishment for endangering everything, everyone. Responsibility, his burden. An oath not to stray.

Anger welled up inside, the part of him that still believed it was unfair speaking up... he forcefully suppressed it.

He deserved so much worse than this.

A veritable storm unleashed itself upon the silent, darkened estate, and he remained on the ledge, staring dully at the fields, where he could see the helpers bringing the herds in.

The vision came as abruptly as the others had, unbidden, unwanted. He could not stop it.

_A fat boy, cowering in a dark corner next to an overflowing dumpster._

_An unearthly cry, piercing and shrill. A glimpse of green light reflected on the low clouds overhead. _

_Dread washed over him, coupled with... was that **hope**?_

"_Can you take us to Surrey? It's to the south." Hands moved automatically, soothing a silver-grey face into calmness, while well-known dark eyes bored into his, pleading. _

"_Come on, we're out of here."_

"_I—I said I wasn't going to fly anywhere!" A shriek, frightened, from the corner. _

_Coward, he thought with grim amusement._

"_You said **no broomsticks**, and **this** isn't a broom."_

A flash of lightning split the sky in two. He gave a start, shaking his head to clear it, a feeling of foreboding rising up in his chest, his breath coming in heavy gasps.

_Aster...? But..._

He frowned, looking down at Stable One once more, where he could just make out Moonshine, followed closely by Aldebaran, her three-month old, coal-black foal. Aster brought up the rear, looking as haughty and alert as he always did as one of the helpers ushered them inside, clearly disgruntled and wishing to turn in for the night.

_Aster **never** follows... he's the leader of the herd!_

Realisation hit.

_Someone stole my horse._

His blood ran cold.

The thought alone was staggering. Aster had been his ever since he was born. His eyes narrowed in anger, fixed upon the scene below.

He leapt to his feet, not caring that he was standing on a narrow ledge, forgetting his searing back and the wind, even his resentment towards his old Gramps. Three quick, firm movements later, he was heaving himself up the tower window, over ten feet above the ledge. He drew his wand as he raced down the stairs, wiping at the wetness on his face with his right hand. Something was very wrong.

_Flaming pits of hell—someone **stole** my horse!_

"Gramps! Sir!" He shouted, loud enough to wake the entire household. He cursed under his breath as he ran, his boots slipping on the polished wooden floor. The house was too big to be allowed. _Someone stole my horse!_

"_Gramps_!"

"What is it?" The old man left his quarters, tying a long bathrobe in the tartan pattern of the family, nearly colliding with the frantic boy. "Why are you wet? Didn't I tell you to go to your room?"

"Never mind that," Connor said urgently, trying to regain his breath and speak at the same time. "I just saw... Aster—he... he was last, Sir, and—" He gasped for breath, absently aware that Gramps was giving him a strange look. "I... I was in the West Tower, Sir, and I saw..."

How to explain that? Gramps would surely think him insane. As if that mattered now. He tried again, tried to impress the urgency of the situation on the old man before him.

"I _saw_ Aster, Sir. He _wasn't_ leading the herd, and he's the leader... he was _last_, Sir!" Still Gramps did not move, his penetrating stare scrutinising his grandson from under his bushy eyebrows.

"Sir, I had this... flash of... of somewhere else, and Aster was _there_. But then I saw him _here_, and he was _last_..." He paused, finally untying his tongue to say the words that had been racing haphazardly in his head. "Someone stole my horse."

_Someone **breached the wards** and stole my horse. Merlin..._

"Dilly!" The old man roared so loudly that the ground shook, his eyes flashing. "Dilly, wake everyone! We are under attack! You!" Gramps turned to him, drenched to the bone and shivering. "Get your brother and Holly. Meet me downstairs." The old man turned to leave, but stopped at the last minute. A gnarled hand landed hard on his shoulder, almost making his knees buckle, as heavy as the burden entrusted to him.

"You know what is at stake. _Protect your brother_." Green eyes bored into his, reminding him of his duty. As if he needed a reminder, so soon after...

"Yes, Sir." He successfully kept his voice from shaking.

"At _all_ costs." The tone was grave, almost threatening.

"Aye, and if it kills me." The answer came automatically, startling him even as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

The old man gave a grim smile, his expression... _triumphant_?

"And if it kills you." The confirmation was spoken softly, yet no less meaningful. He shivered, all sense of reassurance gone.

The old man smiled, despite the urgency of the situation. He had done his work well. The look he bestowed upon his grandson was probably the warmest he had ever given him throughout his life. He knew the boy would hold true to his promise. Until the death, so he had sworn. _So much like his father_... For the first time in long years, he thought of the man with less than bitter loathing. He just hoped his sacrifice would not come tonight.

The moment could not last, however. He turned away, calling for his personal elf.

"Dilly! Bring me my dragonhide vest!"

* * *

"_Come on, you can do better than that!" _The cheerful tone he'd never hear again resounded amidst the rushing whirlwind in his head—he fought it.

"Turn around—get away from here, _come on_!" Harry shouted desperately, trying to make the horse fly away. It flew onwards, towards the pier, heedless of its rider's urging. "_What are you doing_!"

**_It's a trap!_** the little voice in his head screamed, only to be drowned out by a much colder one.

"_Bow to death, Harry... It might even be painless..."_

He pulled out his wand, feeling the horse carrying him lower, ever closer towards the Dementors that were gathering straight underneath him. It was shaking now, fighting to stay in the air, just as he was fighting to scrounge up a memory... a happy one.

"_Expecto_—" He could not breathe, could see nothing except darkness, could think of nothing except—

"_Come on, you can do better than that!"_

"_He can't come back, Harry. He can't come back, because he's d—" _

"NO!_ Expecto Patronum!" _A thin wisp of silver shot out of his wand, but it was not nearly enough: no sooner had it left his wand, that it dissolved into thin air.

"_Did you love him, baby Potter?"_

"_Kill the boy, Dumbledore... End it now..."_

He could feel the Dementors on the street below, could hear their rattling breath as they raised their heads, even as the horse struggled to remain airborne, its hooves flaying wildly in the air.

_**Think of something happy, dammit!**_

"_You can do better than that!"_

But no thoughts of happiness came to him. The rush in his ears became unbearable, and he clung to the horse's mane for dear life, his wand useless in his hand.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_" A deep, commanding voice roared from the pier, and moments later was joined by others. Harry opened his eyes as the voices in his head subsided abruptly.

He could see again.

A huge streak of silver shot towards the Dementors, breaking their ranks, slithering and biting its way between them, driving them back from the pier... and the three invisible horses hovering overhead, while an eagle charged the Dementors from above, nearly bowling Harry over in its furious flight as it dove sharply onto them.

The moon shone brightly once more, but the cold did not leave. Chest heaving and feeling rather windswept, Harry kept his eyes on the long line of Dementors gliding quickly away, ushered on by a humongous snake and the eagle, towards the north-eastern edge of the town.

_Fancy that, being saved by Death Eaters_, he thought darkly, suppressing a shiver and catching his breath.

Turning his attention to the pier, he saw the wizards gathered there shrouded in a silver fog that seemed to be fed by more than one of their wands. By all looks of it, they were as rattled by the sudden onslaught as Harry was, and sank to the ground, weak-kneed and shaking.

Harry glared at them, the smell of the carnage, burnt flesh and hair filling his nostrils. His horse had remained hovering on the spot, two hundred feet above the ground, and threw its head up and down wildly, kicking the air... and staring at the bound horses at the pier.

They were huddled closely together now, their tails clamped firmly between their hind legs, unable to flee from the gruesome fate that awaited them.

_Oh. Right._

_Can't very well leave them to it, now can we?_

Harry gritted his teeth.

"Dudley, are you still around?" he called softly, his eyes never leaving the group of Death Eaters, who did not seem all that keen on continuing their butchery at the moment.

A weak gibber came from close behind him. It was enough, really. The less he heard from Dudley, the better.

_What now?_

"Dud..." Harry said slowly, his eyes scanning the row of warehouses separating the pier from the rest of the town and finding the needed opening. "Dud, I'm going to need your help."

_They'll never know what hit them._

"Wh...?" Dudley started, but Harry was already directing his horse towards the side street. Dudley's followed at once.

* * *

"Anything familiar, Professor?" George asked, shivering in the cold. Tonks had insisted he and Fred should take off their dragonhide jackets before they left for Scourie. Too conspicuous, she had said.

Inwardly, he scoffed. _She_ should talk, with that even more lurid lime-green hair colour she now sported. Not that anyone had so much as given them a second glance so far. At Scourie, they had simply been given a wide berth, and Rhiconich was proving to be even more dull and sleepy than the first town they had traipsed across.

Or maybe it was the time of night.

In fact, the inhabitants of the town—although _village_ was a lot nearer the mark, this place was roughly the same size as Ottery St. Catchpole—had all but left the streets. There was a fair throng gathered in a pub, but other than that, they were free to roam at their heart's content.

Lupin sighed. This was not the right village, or at least he didn't think it was. He glanced over at the only part of Rhiconich they had not yet explored, his heart sinking.

None of the streets seemed familiar, and the outskirts did nothing to stir his memory.

"Let's try at the next town," he decided, receiving four relieved nods in response as he led them to an empty plot of land and behind a tractor.

"That would be Inverarray..." Tonks calculated the Apparition coordinates, and they decided upon a spot near the outskirts of the town.

Five wands rose in the air in a practiced movement—

Nothing happened.

Tonks repeated the movements, her actions mirrored by the others.

Again, nothing. They exchanged uneasy glances.

"Are you sure you got them right?" Bill reached for the map.

"Yes," Tonks said, handing it over. "Why can't we apparate?"

"I don't know..." Lupin frowned.

"Well, the coordinates are correct," Bill muttered after a few moments.

"Anti-Apparition wards, maybe?" Fred threw in, and the three older Order members groaned. They were heartily sick of Anti-Apparition wards. Of any type of wards, really, seeing as they had spent every free moment of the past few weeks either tearing wards down or setting wards up.

Fat lot of good that did.

However, Fred did have a point.

"Who is on duty at the Ministry tonight?" Lupin asked abruptly.

"Today, you mean—it's past one in the morning."

"That's what I meant."

"Kingsley has to report at six," Tonks said, checking her watch. "Why?"

"I think this might be the town we've been looking for." Lupin answered. "If it is, we'll need backup."

"Do you want to wait until _six in the morning_ to find out?" Bill asked incredulously. For him, the presence of the wards alone was indication enough that something was not right.

"No—I'll send a message over now. Do you think we could get there by another way?"

"We could take a car," suggested Tonks. "I can drive."

"Why not set up a portkey and be done with it?" said Fred, jumping from one foot to the other, his teeth chattering.

"Wouldn't be too smart if there are indeed Death Eaters around." Tonks rolled her eyes at the twins. "Oh, put on your jackets if you're so miserable."

"What happened to the whole blending-in thing?" George asked, feigning horror, while Fred wasted no time and slipped into his gloriously warm – and glow-in-the-dark – jacket.

"It's a bit useless if you're deep frozen, isn't it?" she replied, as if that settled the matter.

It was enough for the twins, though.

Lupin smirked, waving his wand at the sky. A bright silver bird shot out of the tip, disappearing from view after a few moments.

"What now, o fearless leader?" Fred's tone was much more chipper now he was warm. Thawing, more like.

"Well... we need a car, but..." Lupin stopped short as he saw the grins on the twins' faces.

"Give us..."

"...five minutes."

With identical mournful sighs, the twins shimmied out of their jackets again and disappeared down the street.

Five and a half minutes later, they returned, driving a pink double-cabin pick-up truck.

"We hope to have been of service," said George, bowing low and letting Tonks take the steering wheel.

"Yes, sorry for the delay—we had to stop and get some more of this pet roll thing."

"Just get in and let's go."

Once everyone was comfortably seated, Tonks drove off.

* * *

"So." Harry said moments later, peering around the corner of the street and watching the Death Eaters sitting some fifty feet away. "You are going to attract the Death Eaters, but then you have to fly away fast, because they are bound to shoot spells your way as soon as they hear you. I'll get them from behind and free the horses, how's that for a plan?"

"Harry, I can't—"

"I'm talking _to your horse_, Dud." Harry sounded like he was trying not to laugh. "It's going to do all the work, after all. All you have to do is scream bloody murder and try not to fall off."

"What?" Dudley shook his head resolutely. "No—I... I shan't do it."

"Dud—we don't have time for this," Harry hissed. "They're right around the corner!"

"You can't make me!" Dudley hissed back, fumbling about and grabbing hold of Harry's Invisibility Cloak, pulling his cousin closer to strangle him. "I want to go home!"

"Or you can oink for the rest of your days..." Harry went on as if nothing were wrong with the world, tapping his wand idly against Dudley's clenched fingers. "You choose."

Dudley released the cloak as if stung, and Harry wished he could see the expressions on his cousin's face. It would make for a good laugh.

"They'll kill me!"

"Then I'll announce the Sunday barbecue." Harry said coolly, righting his cloak. "Stay here and start screaming. I'll go get those horses." Without waiting for an answer, and hoping to take advantage of the Death Eaters' current state, Harry urged the horse upwards.

He didn't expect it to rear up in the air, kicking out and issuing a loud, wild neigh.

"No, wait! What are you—?" The horse shot forward, and it was all Harry could do to remain on its back.

_So much for a stealthy approach, eh?_ the little voice in the back of his head quipped.

_Oh, shut up._

The Death Eaters leapt to their feet as two dozen hopeful neighs answered the first, the horses rearing up and resuming their struggle for freedom, kicking and tearing at the ropes holding them in place—

"It's that mad horse again!" one of the Death Eaters shouted. Harry recognised the voice.

_Ah, it's Mr. Obvious._

"Kill it—one less core will not make a difference," a deep voice snarled, and Harry recognised the caster of the snake Patronus.

_I'll thank you in a bit, you murdering bastard._

Mere moments later, nine wands were aimed at the dark sky, shooting as many jets of light upwards, while the remaining three Death Eaters abandoned the crates they were loading on a boat and hurried back to help the rest.

They shot blindly, but not without aim.

The horse dodged the curses, weaving its way around the ghostly beams of light, narrowly avoiding being hit. It reared up, challenging the Death Eaters with another wild neigh.

Harry decided, then and there, that he rather preferred his broomstick, thank you very much. The horse had a mind of its own, and for some reason, its views on a surprise attack were greatly different from his.

Dudley wasn't screaming.

"Dud! Go on!" Harry shouted, hoping to make himself heard over the din the Death Eaters were making. Dudley's voice was conspicuous only by its continued absence, and Harry quickly realised he had to try another approach. He was still as good as invisible—and he needed that narrow advantage, particularly now that his fat cousin seemed to have deserted him.

_Damn you, you fat, yellow-bellied gorilla!_

Harry aimed his wand at the Death Eaters. The beam of his spells would surely make him an easier target, but he couldn't dodge forever... and this horse, although fast, lacked the ability to perform sudden turns in narrow spaces.

Not to mention it moved out of its own accord and he was holding on for dear life. He raised his wand—

"_Everbero_!" he shouted, not waiting to see if he hit to cast another curse. "_Reducto! Impedimenta! Stupefy!_"

Clinging to the horse's back as it gave an equestrian rendition of what felt horribly like a Wonski Feint to avoid being hit by a jet of green light, Harry plunged his hand deep inside his escape kit, withdrawing his Firebolt.

Enough was enough.

"You carry on," he muttered. "Distract them—I'll try and get past."

A wild neigh resounded across the pier in response, and the horse went into a dive, headed straight for the cluster of Death Eaters, who had clearly not expected an attack by a wizard—

"_Stupefy_! _Stupefy_! _Everbero_!" Harry shouted, the spells leaving his wand one after the other.

He saw one of his spells hit, and as many answering curses were sent against him in response. The horse swerved to the right, even as Harry leapt off to the left, mounting his Firebolt as he fell and whooshing over the Death Eaters' heads.

Part of him relaxed as he was on his broomstick again.

_Much better._

The horse charged with another cry, its outline faintly visible to Harry, causing the Death Eaters to flatten themselves to the ground to avoid being hit. Two were caught completely unawares and were sent ten feet in the air, ending their impromptu flight against a nearby fishing boat with a crash.

Confused shouts trailed to Harry's ears as he approached the cluster of horses as stealthily as he could.

"McNair! McNair, are you all right?"

"Where is it?"

"Are there more?"

"I can't see it!"

"There it is! _Avada_—" Mr. Obvious raised his wand.

"No, you don't—" Harry turned his broom, charging from behind. "E_ructo evomo_," he hissed, watching Mr. Obvious clutch his stomach and retch all over the tall, deep-voiced Death Eater, who seemed to be the leader.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" he yelled, pushing Mr. Obvious away from him in disgust. "KILL THAT DAMNED BEAST!"

"It would be easier if we could see it!" another Death Eater shouted angrily, tilting his head upwards and pointing at a spot some twenty feet away from where Harry could see the horse plunge into another dive.

"Then make it _visible first_, damn you all!" the deep voice boomed, and instants later, shouts of "_Finite Incantatem_!" added themselves to the din.

Harry executed a perfectly-timed Sloth Grip Roll, avoiding a stray beam of light that ricocheted off a window pane, before he went into a last dive—he leapt to the ground, his broom in his hand—he rolled over twice... and came to a stop against what he had believed to be a pile of rubbish with a wet squelching sound.

Only it wasn't rubbish.

The stench of blood and innards was overwhelming, even despite the wind, making his eyes water and his stomach flip over. Clenching his teeth, Harry backed off from the pile of discarded carcasses, slipping and sliding on the blood-drenched planks—he was covered with the stuff—

He saw a floppy-eared head amidst the rubbish.

A house elf.

_Gods..._

He averted his eyes from the sight.

Acutely aware that the horses had suddenly gone very quiet, Harry crept and slid towards them, his eyes constantly darting to the group of wizards, who were still shooting spells at the sky—

Harry examined the ropes, his pulse throbbing in his ears. They were seamlessly affixed to a large iron ring— but he had practiced with Binding Spells in Charms class, and most could be cancelled with a simple counter-spell.

Ducking away from a fiery-yellow spell whizzing past, Harry tapped the first rope and watched the glow disappear.

He made short work of the ropes, tapping them in quick succession to cancel the charms, and was soon in the process of casting a strong enough Severing Charm to cut the link to the ring.

One by one, the horses were freed. They seemed to understand the importance of not drawing attention to themselves, because they remained still, unmoving...

Suddenly, one of them snorted, backing off—Harry's neck prickled.

"What do we have here?" a voice said softly behind Harry. "A horse thief, how touching... I'll have that wand, if you please."

Harry froze, his wand raised—only to have it plucked out of his hand.

_Oh, Damn._

"McAlpin, I should have known," the man snarled, jabbing his wand at Harry's neck. "Which one are you? Turn around."

_Mc...Who?_

The man thought he was someone else. Not that it mattered—

Harry turned, rising from his crouch, not daring to breathe. There was little to recognise from the Death Eater before him; he wore a silver mask underneath his hood, and all Harry could see was a pair of dark eyes glinting at him, two rows of perfectly white teeth revealed in a cold smile.

"Hm, you've learned the Disillusionment Charm already, have you? Not that it helps when you decide to cover yourself in blood—_Finite_."

Dark eyes widened as they saw who was standing there. Harry tensed himself for a sprint.

"Well, I'll be—_Impossible_!" The man's look of bewilderment became manic. "The Master will be pleased... Harry Pot—"

"_AIEEEEEEE_!" The scream was bloodcurdling.

It was also coming from above.

Both the Death Eater and Harry looked up as one—Harry recognised what was coming at them and leapt back just in time—

Dudley fell bodily on top of the tall Death Eater, who had no time to react and crumbled underneath his considerable weight with a dull crunching sound and a _squawk_. Harry doubted he would be getting up anytime soon.

"Dud? You all right?" Harry crouched down beside his cousin, his hand closing around his wand once more. He did not expect Dudley to nearly leap up at once.

"THAT DAMNED HORSE THREW ME OFF!"

One thing might be said on Dudley's behalf. His lungs were _clearly_ well developed.

Dudley's outraged bellow not only made the horses back away further and take flight, it also startled the Death Eaters long enough to keep them from shooting curses all over the place—for a moment, everything went quiet.

Harry took the chance, grabbing Dudley's armpit to pull him off the fallen Death Eater instants before the others recovered their senses and started firing curses much nearer home. And sure enough—

"Oy! Oy! Muldoon is down!"

"The horses! They're getting away!"

"_AAAAHHH_!"

"Flaming pits of hell, Dudley—_shut it_!" Harry hastily reached out and clapped a hand over Dudley's mouth. It was rather squishy. "What took you so long?"

"Th—the horse..." Dudley stammered, thankfully keeping his voice low. "I...It ran into a Dismember..."

"A Dementor?" Harry echoed, remembering how Dudley had refused to speak for nearly an hour the previous year.

"There is someone—Bloody hell, it's Harry Potter! GET HIM!"

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Harry saw the green spell come at him—he rolled out of the way, dragging Dudley with him—they struggled to their feet, even as one of the Death Eaters lunged at them—only to be knocked clean off his feet when Dudley's fist instinctively shot forward.

Harry glanced sideways at Dudley, who goggled at the fallen wizard with something akin to disbelief.

"_Extundo_!"

Harry was ready. The spell had hardly been spoken, when he had dragged the stunned Dudley down and a shield up, which shimmered brightly in the darkness.

"_Contra Contego_!" he shouted the Shield Charm and the Hammer Hex broke in a burst of sparks, but his shield was still in place— three more spells impacted against it, but he never heard what they were.

There was a noise of something large shattering, followed by an almighty roar and a familiar _WHEEE! BANG! WHOOEY!_

It was the most beautiful sound in Harry's ears.

The trolls had heard the din.

Harry saw them smashing their way towards the fires. They seemed to be still looking for whoever had glued those fireworks on their leader's bum, and looked no less furious than before.

Probably the Whiz-Bangs that continued to tail them closely like giant burning flies had something to do with that.

The Death Eaters ignored the sky completely, their attention entirely devoted to the angry trolls approaching. None of them noticed the flying chameleon that dove sharply less than a foot over their heads, landing quietly next to Harry, even as the trolls reached the wharf and chaos erupted.

"Let's go!" Harry helped Dudley mount and scrambled onto the horse's back in front of him, all the while trying to keep an eye on the Death Eaters.

Surprisingly, the Death Eaters seemed to have forgotten all about Harry in the face of the new threat. Which suited him just fine.

"Don't let them get to the cores!" one of them shouted, and they quickly regrouped, standing defensively before a stack of studded crates Harry had not paid attention to before.

"C'mon, let's get out of here." Harry muttered, patting the horse's neck to get it moving again.

Ten-foot long wings spread wide, and a mighty heave later, they were soaring across the skies, leaving Inverarray, with its crazy trolls, Death Eaters and Dementors, far behind.

Harry craned his neck around to get a last look at the goings-on below.

Shouts of curses filled the air, mingled with the roars and guttural grunts of the trolls, the whizzing of the fireworks, and the smashing of everything within the trolls' reach—

A strangled cry was heard, and one of the Death Eaters was hurled against the stack of crates—

"_Avada Kedavra_!" The troll crumbled with an earth-shattering thump. Behind it, two more blandished their clubs—one of them threw a massive arm back—and its club connected with a Catherine Wheel, sending it straight against the Death Eaters, who leapt aside—and it landed into the purple fire.

Flames shot up over twenty feet high, licking away at the planks of the pier, the fire spreading so fast it seemed alive—

In one word: Pandemonium.

The horse gained speed and altitude, and soon Harry was shivering. Behind him, Dudley was clutching Harry's sides, hunched against his back. He too, was trembling, but Harry supposed it was more out of fear than the biting cold.

He smiled in relief; nothing could make him feel miserable right now. Not even Dudley clinging to him like an overgrown leech.

He took a deep breath, feeling the wind icy against his face, so cold it numbed him, the horse's powerful wings effortlessly keeping them in the air. Soon he was aware of a number of shadows trailing closely behind them—the horses he'd freed were following.

They had made it.

They flew on in silence, only occasionally broken by Dudley's sniffles or a whinny, passing a couple of villages on their way. Harry's expression had not changed; he doubted he'd be able to get rid of that stupid smile in a while.

"You like the view, Dud?" he asked loudly. Dudley did not answer. "Dud?"

He looked back over his shoulder. Dudley was still hunched against Harry's back, his face a blank mask.

"You know, I noticed something," Harry went on brightly, "that's some right hook you've got, Popkin."

"_DON'T CALL ME POPKIN, YOU STUPID FREAK!_"

Harry gave a barking laugh that made Dudley jump.

* * *

"Okay, who's next?" Harry asked, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper again. He was knackered.

They had landed on a mountainside that was located uncomfortably close to Inverarray, when Harry's euphoria had abruptly subsided, leaving a sudden exhaustion in its wake that made it clear he would be unable to hold himself upright much longer. The intention was to rest for a while before resuming their journey.

Harry, exhausted as he felt, had no such luck.

Upon landing he had set up the tent and ushered the horses inside—and seen the real state they were in. Most sported whip-marks, cuts and even burns, aside from the deep welts on their necks that came from the ropes they had been bound with.

The jar of Gunmore's Gash Gelatin was almost empty now, and he knew he ought to feel glad that it was all it took to heal the... well, _herd_ would be the proper term, seeing as there were almost thirty horses dozing in the entrance hall.

It would be much easier, too, if it weren't for the bouts of fear and dread that started gripping him every time he relaxed, if only a little.

As far as he knew, they were somewhere in the Highlands, and nobody had followed them, so there was no reason for his heart to start racing as if a hundred Dementors were towering all over him. Or for him to have sudden flashes of disconnected images and sounds that accompanied every one of those bouts of fear.

Harry shivered, closing his eyes against the nausea welling up inside him, and slid into a sitting position against the wall...

_The rattling breath came ever closer, wind rushing in his ears—as if from afar, he heard a shrill shriek as the girl hit the earth, hands thrown over her head in a futile protective gesture. _

_**No! Holly!**_

_The other tried to reach her, tried to get her to flee--_

"_No! Chris, Run!" he shouted, stumbling to reach his brother, who was struggling to get the girl to move._

_They were closing in on them, bringing darkness._

_**Cold.**_

_He raised his wand, knowing he had no chance—he had never so much as managed a silver mist—_

"_**Expecto—Expecto...**"_

_He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, his world reduced to perceptions of fear, of voices he never wanted to hear again—_

"_I wish that you had died instead of your mother." A bitter growl, full of hate—_

"_No, please... **Expecto... Expecto Patronum...**" **A happy memory... think of a happy memory!**_

_Screams in his head, around him—panic. Fire. Pain._

"_She died because of you—you shall die for her son. It shall be your punishment."_

_**I'm sorry! I'msorryI'msorrysosorry--**_

_The other gave a loud wail, falling to the ground—they were going for him._

_**Protect your brother. At all costs.**_

_**And if it kills me.**_

_It was not a happy memory, quite the contrary. But it was strong. He raised his wand again, directed unseeing eyes to the source of the rattling breath, stumbling backwards towards the other._

"_**EXPECTO PATRONUM!**" _

_A dragon rose from the wand, huge wings spread wide—it threw a flame of silver in a silent roar as it charged against the ever-advancing mass of black cloaks and hoods—they backed away—_

"_GET BACK IN THE HOUSE! NOW!" _

_**Gramps.**_

_He snapped into motion automatically, turning his back on the hooded creatures even as the old man's eagle Patronus joined his dragon. One hand grabbed the collar of the other, hauling him back to safety, while his other hand reached out for the girl and lifted her up as he went._

Harry's eyes snapped open, not knowing where he was at first, feeling his breath catch in his throat while his heart threatened to leap out of his mouth. He gave himself a strong shake, willing the feelings of panic away.

They were not his. He knew it.

He brought a shaking hand up, wiping the cold sweat from his face. There were no Dementors here, no threats. His scar prickled, and he suddenly felt a strong urge to laugh out loud.

Things were going better than he had expected— _No_. That was Voldemort talking, not him... Harry was feeling terrified and happy all at once, exhausted and hurt and hyped-up and awake.

He was losing his mind.

And wasting precious moments.

"Dudley!" he called suddenly, leaping to unsteady feet. "Dudley! We're leaving. NOW!"

It was a surprisingly quick departure, even despite the large number of Disillusionment Charms Harry had to administer. The horses, although tired, were willing to go on, and Dudley himself was behaving strangely cooperative.

Harry, in turn, was nothing short of frantic.

A sense of urgency was now taking hold of him, mixed in with all those contradictory feelings, and he was not going to ignore it.

Conjuring a few soft ropes out of thin air, he tried to turn them into makeshift reins, but his hands were trembling and clumsy. To his disbelieving surprise, Dudley offered timidly to do it instead.

_I must look a sodding wreck..._

He had thought he would feel better once they were underway, but the relief brought by the wind in his face as they soared across the clear night sky was short-lived.

Soon Harry was fighting tears of despair, alternately wanting to celebrate an anticipated victory—and trying his hardest not to fall off his horse. He clung to its neck, nauseous and clammy, his eyes tightly shut, in a futile attempt to stem the flow of alien emotions.

What felt like an eternity later, the sun rose in the horizon, slowly filling the world with light, dispelling the shadows and warming Harry's every fibre.

Relief washed over him, as if the sunlight had the power to vanquish the fear and despair—He opened his eyes, as if seeing the world for the first time. The sight was breathtaking.

The mane of the horse carrying him moved in a light breeze, tickling his throat and face, which he had hereto held pressed against its neck, a source of warmth for his cold and clammy body. He looked down, seeing a forest in the morning light, out of which a flock of birds flew, racing the near-invisible horses for a few moments before turning eastwards.

Harry straightened up, a slow smile spreading on his face. Looking around him, he felt the powerful beat of the wings carrying him safely across the sky, saw the horses following them, their bodies adapting to the changes in the scenery, as if they were made of water.

The tiredness had suddenly left him, replaced a by sensation he could not quite define; happiness, relief, even exhilaration and freedom and awareness all rolled into one emotion.

And this one was his own.

It _was_ a fine day for flying, Harry noticed. The skies were clear, only a few cotton-candy clouds high above them, and the sun did a spiffing job of warming the air, which in itself carried the smells of a highland countryside in the summer.

His horse whinnied, receiving answers from the rest of the herd. Harry patted it on the neck, infinitely grateful for its sense of direction and care. It led them steadily southwards, avoiding towns and villages, never losing the route even when they had to give a large detour to avoid a city.

It was so thorough, in fact, that not even paranoid Mad-Eye would object to its tactics.

The thought of the Ex-Auror brought others with it, and Harry found himself wondering beyond just getting back to Surrey for the first time since this twisted adventure had begun. Would he be expelled from Hogwarts? For all he knew, he could be. The Obliviation Squad would have had its work cut out for them, and there were so many witnesses to his trampling of the International Statute of Secrecy that it didn't really matter that he was using an untraceable wand at the time.

Then there was the Order, only it wasn't. It wasn't there. He had seen them storm the play park, but they could all have vanished into thin air for all he knew. There had been no contact, which he partly attributed to the tent's features, but still... they could have sent Hedwig. _She_ would have had no problems finding him, of that he was certain.

Part of him wanted to worry about them, they could have been hurt in the attack, after all, but a greater part of him was completely estranged from them. They had held him in storage like a thing, and all their plans, all their guarding had been of no help to him whatsoever. Now, he had been hiding out in the backyard of Azkaban, of all places—and he'd found better help from a pack of strange horses than from the wizards and witches who were supposed to be his friends, his _protectors_, for sod's sake!

He supposed he was entirely entitled to be angry, to feel betrayed. Although he knew that they were acting with the best of intentions, the war was not going to be won on good intentions alone.

Good intentions, he reminded himself bitterly, were what _he_ had acted upon when he led his friends into a mortal trap. And no one knew what they had amounted to in the end better than he himself did.

_Wish you were here,_ he found himself thinking, a lump settling in his throat again. _Wish you hadn't gone to the Department of Mysteries. Wish I had rubbed two brain cells together before getting you killed. I wish you were here to help me. I wish..._

_I wish._

He drew his Omnioculars out of his pocket, more to give himself something else to do before he crumbled than out of interest in sight-seeing.

Harry focused his Omnioculars on a large cluster of dwellings, spotting the name Stirling on another signpost far below. He dug the map out of his pocket, and sought the name out. A few hurried calculations later, he realised they still had a good five hundred miles to go.

"Would you like a rest?" he asked the horse, his strangled voice pathetic in his own ears. "If you do, could you find us a safe spot to land?"

His question was answered as the horse turned into a sharp dive, circling a patch of grassland on a gentle slope a few times. Hooves hit the ground with a soft flump, and the horse galloped lightly across the clearing before it came to a halt at the edge of a quiet forest.

"Thank god!" Dudley exclaimed, sliding from his own horse and sinking to the earth, rolling over onto his back and flattening the thick grass and flowers like a steamroller. "I thought we'd never stop."

"We still have a long way to fly, Dud," Harry answered, rapping his head with his wand and becoming visible once more. He was tired of not seeing anyone—besides, they still had the cloaks, didn't they?

"What about a train?" Dudley suggested hopefully.

"Too slow. Too dangerous, too," said Harry at once, shaking his head dismissively. Dudley did not share his point of view.

"Too _slow_? Too _dangerous_? They reach _hundred sixty bloody miles per hour_!"

"Yeah, I know. 'S still too slow. My broom's faster than that." Harry slid off his horse and patted it on the neck

"You lot are a bunch of weirdoes, you know that, don't you?" Dudley wheezed from the spot he had landed, apparently kissing the ground.

"Yep," said Harry proudly, rapping Dudley and lifting the Disillusionment Charm from him as well.

They did not set up the tent this time, but had a breakfast of some leftover, quite squashed pies Mrs. Weasley had sent Harry what felt like ages earlier, which they washed down with butterbeer—altogether an excellent meal.

The clearing they were in was located at the edge of a forest that seemed alive with songbirds. The horses took to grazing all over the place, drinking deeply from a nearby stream that flowed down the hill and reached a sleepy village surrounded by green fields not far ahead.

_Now this is more like it,_ Harry thought drowsily as he lay on his back in the sun, listening to the noises Dudley was making in his sleep. He absently scratched his prickling scar, resolutely ignoring whatever Voldemort was feeling. He was too content to worry about anything at the moment.

They had left Inverarray, and they would make it to Surrey in the early afternoon. The sun was shining, and he had just had an excellent breakfast, even if it did look like that Death Eater Dudley had squashed flat on the pier...

Life was, for the first time in what felt like forever, good.

But his scar would not be ignored. Harry rubbed his hand against it, anger welling up inside him, mingled with frustration and not a little bewilderment.

"Caught on, have you?" he muttered with satisfaction. His scar began to throb—hardly unexpected, that. Harry chuckled grimly.

"That's right, snakeface, I got away _again_."

It _had_ to be jarring for the most fearsome wizard in the world, really, to be thwarted over and over again by his fifteen-year-old enemy. And this time, Harry had done it by pure coincidence.

Priceless.

A thought crossed his mind, tempting and tantalising. _What if...?_

What if he dropped Dudley off at Privet Drive and eloped with the horses? He had the tent Sirius had given him, and it had proven to be hard to trace, at best—he could spend the summer wherever he wanted, without having the Order breathing down his neck at all times – not that they had been of much use anyway.

Harry chuckled, and this time it was out of amusement. Dumbledore would go bloody _ballistic_! The mere thought of his headmaster hopping up and down in a temper made the idea worthwhile. Plus... it _was_ feasible.

Freedom.

A dreamy smile spread across his face, as his eyes followed the trail of a butterfly around the clearing.

What could stop him from doing just that? From getting away for a while and have himself a real vacation for a change?

His scar seared.

"Ah!" A hand clapped against his forehead.

Voldemort, at least, had already gone bloody ballistic and was _close_ to hopping up and down in a rage. He had just been told of what had happened at the pier—Harry had a glimpse of cowering Death Eaters in a circle, awaiting punishment. He braced himself, sensing a _huge_ tantrum building—

"Damn you, Voldemort—a_ah_..." He bit his knuckles to keep from crying out. He was in the open, he could be heard. He bit down so hard he drew blood, but the pain was only mounting... he wouldn't cry out... he was outside, he couldn't... he wouldn't...

Harry came to, tangled impossibly in his Invisibility Cloak, once again subjected to Dudley's preferred method to wake him up: shaking and shouting.

And slapping him in the face when that alone did not do the trick.

"Ow..." Harry moaned, swatting at Dudley's fat hand and twisting around away from him, bile rising in his throat... his stomach turned over and he retched, his breakfast splattering on the spot where he had lain moments earlier.

"Are you awake?" Dudley sounded uncertain, and seemed to consider slapping Harry again, just in case.

"I am now," Harry wheezed, sitting up shakily and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Wh...what is it?"

"I just woke up, and you were all weird—rolling all over the place, biting your hand and not listening to me."

"I'm listening," Harry said thickly, bringing a trembling hand to his forehead. His scar was oozing blood, and his head and left eye felt like twin balloons about to explode. "What do you want?"

"I want to go home!" Dudley wailed. "I've had it with your ruddy camping trip and all!"

* * *

Half past one, his watch informed.

Harry sighed heavily. He'd washed up as well as he could in the river, and was now trying to walk back without his knees buckling under him.

It proved a daunting task and it took a lot of wheezing and cursing to get it done. By the time he had reached the clearing again, he was tripping over his feet t every other step and in a rotten mood. It was a mark of how badly Dudley wanted to go home that he actually helped Harry mount before getting on his horse unaided this time.

They took off sharply, losing themselves above the clouds, a realm open to birds, flying beasts... and Harry.

The fast flight raised his spirits considerably, not in the least because he hardly had to do anything other than enjoy the ride. They flew over Kendal, Skipton, Leeds, and the outskirts of Sheffield (where a huge mall with glass roof dominated the scene), before his throbbing headache developed into a sharp, white-hot pain once more.

Voldemort was quite satisfied with the way something was going. He was planning to attack soon.

Harry gritted his teeth, urging the horse to fly faster. Whatever this news was, it was anything but good.

He lost all track of time shortly after, the pain in his scar coming on and off, sending him flashes of images through eyes other than his own...

"_My Lord and Master, the attack was successful. They are as oblivious as can be. The old man sent out a group to search for the horses—the insiders volunteered."_

_He gave a high-pitched laugh._

Bitter resentment welled up inside him, and he knew it wasn't his own.

Hours passed, and riding on horseback ceased to be much fun. Sure, Harry didn't have to steer or concentrate on maintaining the course, but his legs were cramped, and his back was aching. The sunlight burning on his back had long stopped to be relieving. He could have sworn that the annoying little noises coming from his left were Dudley's whimpers, but his eyes didn't seem to want to cooperate with him, either, so he gave his cousin the reluctant benefit of doubt.

By the time they were giving London the widest possible berth, Harry was reduced to clinging to the horse's neck, his head throbbing madly, vision unfocused, a jumble of feelings and images racing each other in his head, with no clear significance—

Anger. Bitterness. Anticipation. Remorse. Laughter. Pain.

An owl, bursting into flame—

A bone-white hand, holding a cloud of green vapour—

Green eyes boring into his, accusing him of what had happened—

A furious hiss—

"_How much longer, Rasmus?"_

"_Until sundown, My Lord. The outer layer is light-sensitive. There is no other way. After that, the innermost layer will be accessible, particularly if the old man is exhausted... there is ancient magic at work here."_

He'd have to warn the Order. Whatever Voldemort was up to, it was important, he could _feel_ it.

Harry gave himself a little shake to stem the increasing mixture of feelings surfacing at the oddest of moments, so that he did not know where his own ended and the alien ones began. He needed to concentrate on finding Privet Drive.

He had never flown to Little Whinging, only away from it, over the past five years. Both times, it had been at night, and he had been so glad to leave that he had not cared to pay any attention to the landmarks of the place.

Clearly, he should have.

He squinted blearily down, trying to make out anything that could tell them where Privet Drive was located, but seeing little more than blurs.

Never in his wildest dreams had he thought Dudley would be able to find his way home on his own, much less by air.

"Look!" Dudley croaked, his voice breaking in the middle of the word. "I can see the mall from here!"

"Where?"

"There, to the left!"

Harry couldn't see Dudley pointing, but apparently the horses had. He felt the horse—_Aster_, his mind supplied—turn a smooth curve, as he continued to squint at the mass of colours below.

"I can see the play park!" Dudley exclaimed, and after a few tries, Harry saw it, too. Sort of.

"About time!" Dudley yelled, throwing caution to the winds. Harry opened his mouth to shut him up, but it was quite unnecessary. "Come on, you stupid donkey, get me home!"

This, as Dudley found out the hard way, was not the smartest thing to tell a flying horse, particularly one that so just happened to have saved your life. Not on the ground, and _most certainly not_ one and a half miles above it.

Harry saw a watery shape fold its wings and plummet a few hundred feet, heard Dudley's yelp, before the horse—_Moonshine_, the little voice in his head corrected—caught him and rose to the previous height, making a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.

It was at this point that Harry decided he quite liked horses.

He couldn't help it; he laughed. With relief at having gotten so far, at Dudley's swearing, at the sun, at the throbbing in his skull, it didn't matter. For better or worse, it was over.

* * *

They began their descent only after Dudley had shut up.

"A fine thing it would be," Harry told him irritably, "if you go bleating all over the place, and we find it's been taken over by Death Eaters. Now shut your trap and don't move until I tell you to."

The horses began their descent, circling over the large, square houses that made up Privet Drive. Everything, as far as he could tell, was normal; cars were parked in their drives, Mrs. Number Seven was arguing with her children about something or other – the words "ice cream" were the only ones that stuck with Harry, for some reason – and there was no outward sign of magical presence.

Harry mutely directed Aster—he was still trying to figure out how he knew the name—to the back garden of Number Four, where he could see the familiar glow of the wards around the house. They gave one last turn, and went into a gentle dive, preparing to land—

The Disillusionment Charms fell off as soon as they drew level with the roof. A loud honking alarm went off, and the horses landed, some rearing up in fright.

_What the—_

Harry's wand was out before they touched the earth.

The kitchen door flew open, and out poured...

Aunt Petunia. McGonagall. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, nearly bowled over by Uncle Vernon, who stood on the threshold, gaping at the many animals crowding his garden and blocking the way out.

"Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asked in a choked voice, leaping forward.

Harry did not move. Aster, however, did.

He reared up, stomping his hooves on the Dursleys' beautiful lawn, sending clumps of grass flying in an unmistakable gesture of warning.

"Oy! It's Harry! Harry's here!" the yells came muffled from within the house, and soon Uncle Vernon was unceremoniously pushed aside to make way for the rest of the Order.

"Har—"

They froze at the sight, coming to a stop next to Mrs. Weasley, who had been pulled back by Mr. Weasley. Their eyes wandered from Harry to Dudley to the horses, then back to Harry, to Harry's wand...

Harry raised an eyebrow at them, surveying them coldly. He had expected to feel glad to see them, relieved at the very least—he felt deep mistrust instead.

The message was lost on nobody present. Not even Aunt Petunia moved towards Dudley.

There was a harsh laugh, followed by appreciative clapping, coming from the house.

"Very good, Potter, excellent work," Mad-Eye Moody chuckled from the doorway, his magical eye swivelling in every possible direction. "You do have a fondness for making an entrance, I must say." Harry tilted his head to a side, not speaking. "Yes, yes, you know the rules—and so do we. Let us all prove we are who we claim to be."

He clunked down the two steps to the garden, allowing the last member of the Order to face Harry.

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling as they wandered across the scene much like Mad-Eye's had, to rest on Harry, who continued to train his wand on them, not giving the slightest indication he would dismount anytime soon.

Aster kicked the earth, snorting and throwing his ears back at the strange wizards and witches gathered before them. Harry felt Aster's muscles tense, ready to carry him away the very instant any of them so much as looked at Harry the wrong way.

The reaction made him want to smile.

"Will it suffice for your headmaster to prove his identity?" Dumbledore said gravely, all hints of amusement gone from his aged face.

Harry nodded once, still surveying the group before him with deep mistrust.

"Fawkes, I need proof!"

* * *

TBC.

A/N: Review, you guys...


	14. Oscillating

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I just nicked him to make him suffer... Don't deny it, you like it that way.**

**Dedication: To MJ, for her fantastic fanart! You so own my hairy bum. **

**Notes: Many thanks and chocolate frogs to mjc (i), JediCandy (ii), and Amiable Dorsai (iii) for coming up with the insults and mockeries used here. To the rest who posted: yours shall be up in a bit. They're simply too good to waste.**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen – Oscillating**

He had thought the man dead for years, yet here he was, alive and as powerful as ever. The wizard's steel blue eyes narrowed, calculating, assessing every inch of the premises from his sheltered spot on the eaves of a tall cedar, from where he could overlook the inner courtyard of the old house. This was the closest he could come in his human form, but it was enough, for the time being. He had half a day ahead of him, after all, and impatience did not figure in his vocabulary.

The inhabitants of the estate had been in a frenzy of activity all night, ever since the old man had been warned of the attack. How he had found out, the wizard did not know. He had to admit it was intriguing, at the very least. One more question to ask before the man died; if there was one thing that he loathed, it was not knowing.

He had not moved from this very spot all night, unruffled by the Dementors swooping past him as they unleashed their darkness to feed. He had observed every one of his targets' movements, analysed their strength and reactions with the cold detachment of a researcher.

He had been pleasantly surprised with the results, which had greatly exceeded his expectations. They had driven the Dementors away, and now basked in their victory. The wizard felt they had every right to. They had thoroughly deserved it, too: over two hundred Dementors had been sent by Voldemort, in what he had briefly thought had been an excessive investment of energy for a mere dozen witches and wizards, half of whom had been planted on site by the wizard himself.

He now knew better.

The Dementors had wreaked havoc, and at first the McAlpins seemed to have drawn the shorter straw—until they quite unexpectedly turned the tables, and the wizard made a mental note not to take Voldemort's advice lightly ever again. The Dark Lord knew much more than even he had imagined, and the clan McAlpin certainly had more cards up their sleeves than they let on.

On the other hand, anything less from the First Line would have been a rather great disappointment. Appearances could be deceiving, as he knew full well. A mere few days earlier, he had witnessed the lightning-quick reflexes and angry power displayed by the heir to the Potter Line firsthand. He was only beginning to discover the extent of his magic, yet was a force to be reckoned with even now, before this knowledge asserted itself.

It made Rasmus Thanatovich smile.

James Potter would have been proud of his son.

Unlike other wizards and witches in Voldemort's service, Rasmus did not look down on his enemies, nor did he underestimate them. He was an expert in cataloguing each trait, in detecting strengths and weaknesses of allies and foes alike, regardless of their age, heritage or social rank. It was all part of his life's work.

Tonight, he would be able to test the real strength and endurance of the First Line, after a very long wait.

At sundown, the show would begin. A few hours were all that separated him from knowing, first-hand, if Angus McAlpin was as powerful as rumours had made him out to be.

He allowed himself a superior smile. His plan had worked better than he thought possible: Instead of contenting himself with tearing the wards down, he had _replaced_ them with some containment barriers of his own creation. Nobody would ever expect a replacement, and old Angus had been looking solely for the magical signature inherent to his own protective spells.

He had been fooled, quite effectively so. The old man had attempted to rebuild the wards, and he thought he had succeeded. His wards were laid upon Rasmus' own, leaving them to be torn down at any given moment, and a part of Rasmus knew that McAlpin would have noticed this change, would have known that they were irremediably trapped in their own homestead, had the circumstances been different.

The old man was worried, angry. Completely out of sorts.

Rasmus believed he knew why. His eyes wandered to the other part of the inner courtyard of the manor and settled on a boy shuffling past, dark blue robes still stained from the battle, billowing in the strong early afternoon breeze. His hair was ruffled by the wind, his face pale and unsmiling as he strode to a half-destroyed tool shed and extracted a bent pitchfork from within.

The boy waved his wand, and the instrument was good as new. He shouldered it, glaring stonily ahead. Rasmus smiled avidly at the sight of him, spreading his perception to identify his aura. Instantly, the boy stopped short in his tracks, gave his head a little shake, and swatted Rasmus' probing senses away without even realising it.

Rasmus sucked in a deep breath, his smile widening, despite having been unsuccessful in his probe. That one irradiated power, far greater than the old man's, and he was as angry as the old man about something. Not to mention resentful... and bitter. What this one had done to leave old McAlpin thus distracted and angry, Rasmus could only wonder, but it served his purpose far better than a ton of illusions could have done.

_Good._

Anger always made them erratic, resentment and bitterness made them blind, while euphoria made them oblivious. It was their anger that had given Rasmus the upper hand hours earlier: Voldemort had demanded proof of Rasmus' advance, in time to witness, from the comfort of his fortress, as the Elder McAlpin sent out a search party for the horses and several owls.

It was anger that did not allow Angus to see that the party briefly glowed blue when they crossed Rasmus' barrier—an unwanted effect the latter had long since corrected—and it was this same emotion that had made him turn away after sending out the letters, pleas for help, no doubt, that never made it past Rasmus' wards and were, like the birds carrying them, reduced to ashes.

Emotions were useless, unless they were moulded so as to help one strive higher—Rasmus had discovered this truth early on, constantly shaping his own feelings into something that would give him an advantage over any situation.

For Rasmus, there was no fear, no dread or apprehension. There was cold assessment, but no frustration or anger; satisfaction, but no happiness. If he failed at a given task, his emotion turned into determination, cold and impersonal, to succeed the next time.

There was always a next time.

Except with Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was, as yet, the only wizard alive who could inspire any sort of emotion in Rasmus, and this was one of the reasons he still followed him. Riches and power over others did not appeal to him; he had both in spades, and they held little interest for him. Likewise, he did not enjoy torturing or killing muggles or wizards without a specific purpose; _he_ was above such petty, cowardly tactics. Unless, of course, the captive in question had answers to yield. In such cases, Rasmus' precise skill surpassed even the Lestranges' finest work.

The main reason for joining Voldemort's innermost circle – he would have been insulted if he had been offered anything less – was more practical: Rasmus strove for perfection, and Voldemort provided him with challenges worthy of his brilliant mind, with opportunities to find suitably powerful opponents to test himself against and appease his obsessive craving for competition. In exchange, Rasmus delivered results. It had been so for over twenty years, after all.

A game.

His sole passion.

His pastime, one that he had been forced to interrupt when Potter had defeated Voldemort years earlier, and one he now intended to continue practicing with all of his energy.

At long last, the wait was over. The Nine had all but disappeared in the wake of Voldemort's vanishing, but there were heirs now to take their rightful places in the war, thus providing Rasmus with at least some enjoyment. The remnants of the Nine were young, almost too young to take an active part in the war, but Rasmus was not particularly bothered by this fact.

If they were half as lively and creative as the Potter heir, he would have all hands full—something to look forward to, for sure. If not... there had to be some others who could be used instead.

Rasmus' attention returned to the boy. It had been him who had created a Patronus powerful enough to send half of the Azkaban Dementors back to the dark corners of the fortress, defeated. Starving, _angry_ Dementors. Rasmus knew of only a handful of wizards with that strength, and had believed only three remained alive.

He was delighted to learn that he had been wrong.

Angus McAlpin was old, yet Rasmus doubted he had lost an ounce of power; he would be a worthy opponent, one that had slipped through Rasmus' fingers once, before he could try his hand against him.

And he had heirs to his line, it seemed. Two powerful heirs to the First Line of the Nine.

A part of Rasmus thrilled in this knowledge, and he indulged it. Two more opponents for him were a gift from the heavens, as unexpected as it was welcome. Now, if only they were fully grown... he sighed.

Asking Voldemort to wait until they had reached full strength would be folly, however. No; he would have to take what was made available to him and hope that they lived up to the challenge.

Rasmus' eyes followed the boy as he made his way out of the courtyard and towards the stable buildings. He did not appear tired, and Rasmus mentally awarded a point for endurance. After what had happened, this one ought to be sleeping it off, like his brother—and everyone else with an ounce of sense. As it was, however, he had not even washed up, preferring to sulk away from everyone else—Rasmus had, certainly, noticed the angry exchange between him and Angus, which took place shortly after dawn, but the words had escaped him just then.

Ah, well. Another question added to the list.

The boy strode purposefully past the manor gates, his motions fluid, light, in a display of inborn coordination that could not be faked, and came to a stop before the farthest and shabbiest of the stables, which was rather hidden from the tree where Rasmus was sitting at the moment, causing the latter to crane his neck in order to continue his assessment.

If the boy went inside, Rasmus would have to resort to possessing some animal in order to come closer; serving Voldemort had endowed him with more weapons than he had imagined, weapons he had moulded into tools to render his famed precision even more effective.

Instead of entering the dilapidated stable, the boy waved his wand to turn a barrel upside down and perched on it, stumbling over his feet as he went.

Rasmus duly removed the endurance point.

He did not move, avidly scrutinising the features of the youngster, who dropped his previous bearing and gathered his knees against his chest, looking much younger than he had previously perceived, apparently not caring that his tall boots were smearing the inside of his robes with mud as he did so.

Rasmus began to consider docking a point for slumping, and mused idly if the mud on the robes alone would be worth another point.

The boy stared at his knees, as if noticing the state of his clothing only then. He picked listlessly at the dried muck caking his trousers for a few moments, his expression one of utmost concentration, and Rasmus decided to against docking the filth point, on the grounds that it was a mere consequence of the youngster's feelings at the moment, useless as they were. Crossing his arms on top of his knees, the boy rested his chin against them, giving an almighty sigh that was quite unbefitting his status and age.

Speaking of which... perhaps thirteen, or closer to fourteen years of age, to judge by the proportions of his body. The features were not classic McAlpin, however. The boy was rather average in height and lean, rather than the large and stocky build inherent to the McAlpins—although he had inherited the physical strength. Rasmus had seen him carry the girl and drag his brother all the way to the house, had he not?

Black hair, windswept, slightly curled up at the tips instead of the typical wavy brown; an aristocratic face instead of the more broad, round one of Angus McAlpin himself, yet the angles were rounded and not overly sharpened, as was common in the families who shared high cheekbones and angular jaws. The eyes were clear—Rasmus had not been able to see what colour they were, most likely blue—yet another trait uncommon in this Line. An altogether pleasant face to look at, even now, when the lad was glaring at the world at large, immersed in his own thoughts.

His bearing and manner of walking were also much different from Angus' stomping gait... more graceful, perhaps? Rasmus considered this option. Angus McAlpin did, in fact, lumber about as if the horse had run away from under his legs, but it might be an after-effect of riding instead of walking for so many years.

Yet, despite all these differences, Rasmus had seen the boys and the old man side by side and noticed the family air that confirmed at least one half of their heritage. The rest, everything else, from the face to the walk to the reactions, was reminiscent of... _someone_, but he could not remember who, no matter how hard he tried to pick the relevant features apart.

Rasmus frowned, trying to relate the foreign traits he saw with a name and coming up empty. It was important to him to know the ancestry of his opponents, and he prided himself in the accuracy of his estimations of power and ability based on heritage alone. He had, in fact, turned his observation skills into an automatic reaction; judging and labelling everyone he saw was as natural to him as flying was for a bird.

Had he indulged in feelings, he would have been close to frustration. Instead, he mentally looked over his list of traits, knowing, deep inside, that he had seen that face before. Where? When? His mind, painfully organised to yield responses almost instantly, remained devoid of an answer to this riddle.

He looked at the boy once more, squinting against the sunlight. He had fallen asleep, his head resting sideways on his crossed arms, still perched on the barrel.

_Good_.

He would need his wits about him come evening.

After a few moments of consideration, Rasmus awarded him a point for balance.

* * *

Phoenix song filled the air, chilling and comforting at the same time, clearing his mind more than a good night's rest could have done. Harry's world came into focus again, and he closed his eyes briefly in relief.

He was back.

There was a blinding flash of fire and Fawkes appeared, fluttering towards Harry, who allowed him to perch on his shoulder and lean his head against his forehead. If Aster was bothered by Fawkes' presence in any way, he did not show it.

Harry gave Fawkes a little lopsided smile. When he nodded at Dumbledore, however, there was no quirk to his lips.

A collective breath was released when Harry pocketed his wand and allowed Fawkes to perch on top of Aster's head before sliding heavily off his back. To everyone's surprise, the winged stallion did not even budge at the sudden weight of the bird on his head; his ears, which had been laid flat against his head, went up, turning towards the phoenix to hear its song better as it trilled another chilling note.

Harry touched ground rather stiffly, and held on to Aster to steady himself while he tried to keep his knees from buckling under his weight. He felt very self-conscious all of a sudden.

Nobody had made a move to approach him yet; everyone, from McGonagall to Dung Fletcher, was staring at him in uncertain disbelief. It would have been funny if he had not been so tired—McGonagall gaping, open-mouthed, at _anything_ was a rare sight, of that he was certain.

Still, they were all silent, merely goggling, unmoving, not daring to come closer.

"H-Harry, can I get off now?" Dudley asked timidly from Harry's left.

"Yeah, Dud. Go," Harry said, noticing how his voice had lost most of that annoying rasp at last.

There was the dull sound of a horse moving about, a low whinny, and a _thump_ that made the ground shake. Moonshine had apparently taken Harry's words to heart and helpfully directed Dudley to the ground.

Dudley raffled himself up with a scowl, only to be swept into Aunt Petunia's arms as she rushed forward, the perfect picture of motherly distress.

"Diddy! DIDDY! VERNON-- HE'S BACK, VERNON! Oh, my Diddydinkdums, my Popkin! Mummy was ever so worried! I thought you had _died_—did those freaks hurt you? Oh, my Diddy Dumpling!" she exclaimed in between sobs, alternately smothering her son with kisses and hugging him while she half-dragged him back inside, thus proving herself to be at least as strong as a champion weightlifter.

"It was _awful_, mum! I broke my leg, and then there was this huge gorilla that attacked us, and moving statues and a talking mirror that called me pigface!" Dudley whined, wrapped in his mother's arms. "And then there were these Demembers..."

Harry watched them leave, slightly stung by the fact that he had been spared not a glance.

"Yeah, you're welcome," he muttered in a low voice, reminding himself he had other things to worry about at the moment. More important things.

"Hush, my Diddy, you are safe now with mummy," Aunt Petunia said soothingly, yet in a tone loud enough for the entire street to hear. "You must be starved..."

As the door to the kitchen slammed shut, Harry gave a derisive snort and rolled his eyes at the scene he'd just witnessed. The thought of being subjected to a welcome like Dudley's was not only laughable, it was _embarrassing_. The Dursleys were extraordinarily stupid about their son, and he was most certainly _not_ desperate enough to crave attention from _them_. Lugging Dudley across half the country had been rather enough family interaction to last him quite a while, thanks a lot.

"Harry...?" Molly Weasley ventured softly after a few moments of tense silence, during which Harry had fixed his attention on the Dursleys' closed door. Harry turned his head towards her, not quite knowing what to do now it was all over. He just wished the witches and wizards assembled before him would do something other than stare at him. It made him uneasy.

When he looked into Mrs. Weasley's eyes, he saw fear, relief, concern and disbelief mingled with not a little worry. The mixture of emotions that seemed to emanate from the dumpy witch before him took him aback, and he had no time to react as he was swept into a hug as fierce as the one Dudley had received moments earlier.

Mrs. Weasley was shaking, crying, sobbing against him, he could feel his shoulder wet with her tears as she held on to him for dear life, and his previous discomfort only increased. He patted her back awkwardly, at a loss for what to tell her to stop crying, what to do to comfort her.

"Oh, Harry, you are alive," Mrs. Weasley sobbed, "I th-thought th-they had k-k-killed you!"

"They... they didn't, as you can see," Harry muttered, trying to find a way to gently pry himself from her—an ominous lump was rising in his throat again, unbidden. "I'm all right, Mrs. Weasley, honest."

She suddenly held him at arms' length and gave him a very teary-eyed smile.

"I know, Harry. It's j-just so g-good to have you back," she stammered, looking more relieved than anything else now. Lump firmly lodged in his throat, Harry nodded.

"I believe you have quite some story for us, my boy," Dumbledore's voice said from close behind him, and a hand came to rest tentatively on his shoulder. Harry had not noticed the headmaster's approach and flinched, unconsciously backing off with a start and breaking free of Mrs. Weasley's hold.

If Dumbledore was surprised by this reaction, he did not show it. Eyes twinkling, he made to steer Harry indoors, but Harry did not move.

"What will happen to them?" he asked, gesturing at the horses crowding the Dursleys' lawn. Somebody might see or hear them, and he really did not want to have any more trouble with the Wizengamot, or indeed with the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures. The experience with Buckbeak in his third year had been stressful enough, and that had been only one—there were over two dozen animals huddled in the Dursley's lawn now.

"We are under a Dome of Truth," Dumbledore explained with a smile, "all of us are shown as we are, but those outside the Dome cannot see or hear us. As long as they do not fly away, the horses are safe here."

"Okay..." said Harry uncertainly, abruptly aware that the Order had finally stopped gawking at him as they approached him with wide smiles, to clap his back and congratulate him for his escape, and soon a loud babble broke out, his hands were wrung and his shoulders patted by almost everyone present.

"We thought you dead, Potter..." McGonagall sounded as if she had developed a sudden head cold, but she was smiling at him. Before Harry could reply, Dung spoke up, his droopy eyes unusually bright.

"Blimey, Harry, 's good to have you back!"

"How did you do it, Harry?"

"Gods, what happened to your eyes?"

"Where did you find those horses? They are quite rare... Granians, right?"

"Oy, let me through—"

"Fine mess this, Potter..." Moody said from close behind him, and when Harry turned around, he saw the Ex-Auror looking at Aster, who had allowed Fawkes to transfer to his back and was busy sniffing the phoenix, looking quite at ease with the world. "I swear I've seen that one before... Where did you say you found them?"

"They were—" Harry started, but was cut off by Molly Weasley, who had apparently recovered enough to revert to her usual overwhelming self.

"Leave him alone, Alastor. The poor boy needs some rest. He is exhausted, aren't you Harry?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry, trying to sound reassuring—he didn't want her crying all over him again—and wondering if that would be enough to escape from her coddling.

_Apparently not._

"Of course you are, dear." Mrs. Weasley said in her best motherly voice and started fussing over him like an overgrown hen, clucking at the state he was in, and had he been hurt, and where had he been, and did he feel faint or feverish, and was he hungry, it was nearly tea-time after all, he must be starved...

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Dumbledore create a silver bird out of the tip of his wand, which sped skywards and disappeared, as if swallowed by the sunlight.

* * *

Time snailed by, and Rasmus leaned against the trunk of his tree, watching the boy sleep in what had to be the most uncomfortable position ever. The sun was high in the sky, he still had time enough to remember which Line the boys belonged to.

His thoughts strayed as time wore on, and he found himself remembering clearly how the Nine had clashed against each other during the First War, how he had observed avidly, learning, sensing their auras... and unable to pick which one he wanted to get to first, like a child in a sweet shop.

Rasmus had actually welcomed the news that the Potter, Longbottom, Prewett and Black heirs had joined the side of the light, back when Voldemort was first rising. It provided for worthy opponents in a war that was becoming too easy, too devoid of a challenge to him.

The Prewetts had fallen at the hand of Voldemort, but he would have failed if it had not been for a young Rasmus, who had only requested to try his hand against them in exchange for his services. He remembered that night with relish.

Twins were always a joy to fight against, their actions and lines of thought so incredibly similar that they were well-nigh unbeatable. Well-nigh being the very keyword here. Voldemort had wanted to end their lives; Rasmus graciously conceded him the honour. They had been defeated, and thus held no more interest for him. Once broken, they all lost their worth.

Longbottom was tortured to insanity by the Lestranges, but it was Rasmus who had taken down the wards, Rasmus who had duelled Frank for the fun of it, before he turned the floor to Voldemort's more morbid followers.

But none of them even came _close_ to Potter and Black. Those two had played their cards recklessly, with passion and identical grins on their faces.

Potter and Black together had been the perfect match for each other. Rasmus remembered the display of sheer power, the flawless coordination they had shown, time and again, against their opponents. Their creativity and skills of improvisation.

It had been beautiful to watch; they had been able to read each other's minds with a mere glance, their reactions so well known by each other that words were unneeded, superfluous.

He had been obsessed with beating them for years, stalking their every move, trying to mirror their effortless achievements, kept awake for days on end trying to understand their way of thinking... he had to admit, at least to himself, that he still was; time did nothing to diminish his memory.

After a series of failed operations, traps and the death of many hostages, Rasmus had given up any hopes of beating them when they were together, and tried to vanquish them separately.

Potter had laughed with grim amusement when Rasmus fell to the ground, forced to cower and flee in less than three minutes. Three minutes! The mere memory brought Rasmus' blood to boiling point. He had laid his ambush carefully, picking a time when Potter had been sleep-deprived for two days, after an attack that had visibly left him exhausted. Still. Three minutes.

Three!

Black had shaken his head at him, that tantalizing lopsided smirk on his face, after he had effortlessly weaved his way out of the trap Rasmus had prepared for him. Rasmus had done a better job then, and he had been... _granted_... a duel, a _memorable_ duel at that, for his troubles. Black, unlike Potter, was not a friend of making short work of his opponents—or maybe he was indeed as worn out as Rasmus had expected.

Still. Ten minutes, no more, and Rasmus had fled, Black's derisive snort ringing in his ears for months afterwards.

Together, they had been nothing short of deadly. Alone, they were almost unbeatable. Oh, they had enjoyed fighting, much like Rasmus himself did—but theirs was a higher purpose. They, unlike Rasmus, had had ideals to uphold, an honour to defend.

Ideals, Rasmus had once believed, were mere anchors that dragged him down—and thus, he had long laid them aside. They had taught him otherwise. _They_ had been strengthened by their wish to change the world, empowered by their desire for freedom, spurred on to greater deeds by willpower alone.

By then, Rasmus had been beyond recovering his old ideals, too immersed in his game to care about anything else.

They had always beaten him, no matter what he did. It took Rasmus over one year to find and breach their nearby fortress of Black Lodge, after stumbling time and again into the traps they had set with a cunning comparable only to his own.

Then Potter had disappeared, and it was _betrayal_ what brought about his undoing. Rasmus scowled. Betrayal, in his eyes, was too base an action to be _permitted_. Traitors had no place in this game.

His game.

Their game.

He had been bent on finding Black, the obvious choice as a Secret Keeper, and part of Rasmus still believed Black had _allowed_ himself to be found a few times for the sheer fun of it—it was obvious to him that, being the Secret Keeper for Potter, Black had held little hopes of surviving past Christmas.

_Did he plan on being captured and killed?_ Rasmus chuckled. He reckoned Black did plan it. It was an honour he had decided to give Rasmus a chance to catch him.

He'd had loads of fun that last week of October, playing a mortal game of cat and mouse with a target who had already willingly given up on life. Not that Black made it easy for him; he would never have gone down without a fight.

A bloody fantastic fight it would have been, too.

Then the location of the Potters was disclosed. Voldemort had been thrilled, had ordered Rasmus to stop chasing Black around the country and to work on dismantling the defences of the cottage at Godric's Hollow instead. Rasmus had been insulted, but complied. When he learned the true identity of the Potters' Secret Keeper, he had almost killed the pathetic excuse for a wizard on the spot out of spite. He would never have thought to look at Pettigrew for answers. Even the _werewolf_ was a more worthy recipient of such a burden—trust Black and Potter to rewrite the rules of the game at their whim.

Now, of the Nine High Houses, half-grown youngsters represented the greater part of what little was left. A sheer pity.

Potter... The heir to this line baffled Rasmus the most. He had seen for himself that the lad was indeed worthy, despite his relative lack of experience. James Potter had married a Mudblood, and managed to produce a half-blood heir who irradiated natural power—and was only now learning to take advantage of his instinctive, lightning fast reactions. Indeed, the Mudblood had been no less powerful in her right, and Rasmus respected that. Instead of weakening his line as was expected, Potter had strengthened it well beyond what was believable in one generation... unlike others.

Longbottom married into pure blood, mingling with the McKinnon heiress, a powerful Line of the Second Order Rasmus knew well enough. The Longbottom heir had, however, not amounted to fill half of his father's shoes, if the accounts were to be trusted. This one was an enigma to Rasmus, kept constantly under so many layers of spells that it was a miracle that the boy had managed to so much as transfigure a sugar cube in this state.

Weasley had produced seven, in a promising blend with the Prewett blood, although Rasmus had not yet had the opportunity to give them a closer look. The Curse-Breaker had broken through his barriers twice, and that spoke volumes of his abilities. The Dragon-Tamer and the rest intrigued him; he would find out soon enough. It was something to look forward to after this little project was concluded.

_Ah, to be so prolific..._

Lucius had married well, but had produced a single, lone chinless wonder so far. Still... there was hope. Draco Malfoy, doubly powerful in his heritage, the sole living unifier to the Malfoy and Black lines. Blood was thicker than water, after all, and the Blacks had overbearing, dominant traits that had not changed since the creation of the Line many hundreds of years earlier. With any luck, young Draco would soon discover his inner magus and compete with Regulus Black, the second heir, in power. Regulus Black, the spare.

Regulus Black, the turntail—he had been a surprisingly good duellist, as Rasmus had discovered that night. Perhaps his senses had been sharpened out of sheer terror. It happened sometimes. Or perhaps, all those years of living with Sirius, the firstborn heir to the Second Line did, in fact, rub off on the spare. Rasmus never asked; by the time he had thought of formulating the question, Regulus Black had been no more.

Rasmus would never insult the power of the Black line and attempt to place Draco Malfoy on the same level as Sirius Black—it was a pity _he_ left no heirs, because he was by far, one of the strongest of the Nine... naturally tuned to magic, energetic, powerful, a mind as brilliant as it was sharp. Headstrong, brave, selfless.

A deadly combination.

One that was shared by Black and Potter, one that Rasmus had worked for years to beat, and when he thought he had finally achieved to at least equal their prowess, Black would go and do something out of the ordinary and baffle him as well as the rest of the world.

Only Sirius Black had ever escaped Azkaban, and Rasmus had been forced to use every ounce of his cunning to follow his example, and had succeeded—albeit with marginal results. He had, perhaps, freed ten feared Death Eaters in an unprecedented display of ability, but it had been a mediocre achievement in his eyes.

Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban, and nobody had been any the wiser for days. Sirius Black had had no wand, had been tortured day and night for twelve years, and had still managed to pull off the escape of the century, whereas Rasmus had, in the end, been forced to resort to brute force and blast a wall apart to bring about the escape of his allies. He simply had been at an absolute loss as how to remove that last keystone, and he had been cornered into placing his usual finesse aside to get the job done.

It was jarring to be beaten in his area of specialisation—but then, he was willing to let this pass on account of who had performed the deed.

He remembered all the times Black had fooled him, feeding him riddles and mysteries he could not answer. He remembered when he had been delightfully close to killing him nearly fifteen years earlier, attempting to crush his heart in his chest... and found himself clutching at thin air. Two years earlier, Black had escaped from Hogwarts, under the watchful nose of one Severus Snape, the Azkaban Dementors, and Albus Dumbledore himself.

Then he had all but disappeared and nobody had heard of the man in over a year, and no matter how hard Rasmus searched for any trail he could have left behind, he had been unable to find him. Even after so long, Rasmus had not found the answer to this riddle, and there was no possibility to solve it now.

Black had died, betrayed by his own blood, not a month earlier.

Rasmus had mourned Potter's loss. He had mourned Black's loss, as well.

He still did.

He spat on the earth.

She had married Lestrange, and once promised an heir at least as strong as Potter's. No more. Bloodlust and insanity had taken from her the little appeal she had had in Rasmus' eyes. She had ruined the Lestrange line, and single-handedly done away with the hopes of a suitable heir to the Black line while she was at it. Bellatrix Lestrange was, in his eyes, a useless addition to Voldemort's ranks.

He wondered idly why she was permitted to remain in the innermost circle, when she clearly had lost the capacity of thinking straight long ago. Hers was a passion for murder and torture alone. It suited Rasmus fine, as long as the idiotic woman refrained from wiping the best opponents out before _he_ could fight them. It was his prerogative, _his_ game, as Voldemort knew full well. Those were the conditions of their agreement.

Had Rasmus been present at the Department of Mysteries, he would likely have killed her on the spot, if only to have the opportunity to duel Sirius Black once more.

Rasmus now regretted having freed her bony backside from the Dementors' hold. Had she remained captive, he would still be able to continue the game where they left off, years ago. He would not have to go around the world wondering who would have beaten whom, what spells Black would use, what tactics he would employ—and how long the duel would take this time.

Footsteps crunching on the earthy ground startled him from his musings, and he raised his head to behold the other heir to the First Line, who half-walked, half-trotted around the courtyard, seemingly in search of something. He wore clean, midnight-blue robes of the same fine make of his brother's, and his hair, which had been neatly combed, was soon in a similar windswept state as the other's.

Rasmus' attention was spiked at once as the boy, who shared the very same features as his brother, spotted the one he was looking for and made his way towards the rickety stable with a grin and a shake of his head.

He would need to come closer, Rasmus realised. Everyone else was indoors now, and he wanted some answers to the riddles this clan had unwittingly presented, preferably before Lestrange got at them.

Looking overhead, he pointed his wand at a crow he had petrified for this very purpose, and moments later found himself soaring through the barriers and towards the stable.

* * *

With a defeated sigh and a backwards glance at the horses, Harry was ushered inside, noticing only when he moved that he felt tired and clumsy; his legs still refused to respond properly and threatened to give way underneath his weight, while the rest of him was very sore.

Once in the living room, he managed to extricate himself from Mrs. Weasley's death grip, the sounds of the telly in the kitchen ringing in his ears and the smell of sizzling bacon wafting to his nose. Harry numbly allowed himself to be steered into an armchair, a plate of biscuits found its way onto his lap, and Mrs. Figg patted his cheek after telling him how worried she had been and smiling brightly at him. He did not smile back.

Everything seemed wrong, much like the previous summer after the Dementor attack, and Harry's discomfort grew with every passing moment. He did not need pampering, did he? It all struck him as surreal; everyone around him looked glad, relieved... as if they could not believe their eyes. McGonagall was smiling, Dung winked at him, and Dumbledore's eyes could have lit up a room the way they were twinkling.

The only one who did not seem to join in the overwhelming cheer was Mad-Eye Moody, who had taken up post by the fireplace and kept alternately surveying him and the wall—or rather, the group of horses in the garden, his expression as grim as usual.

For his part, Harry completely ignored the Order, who were now busily conjuring seats and drinks, casting Silencing Charms all around (and generally settling down for what promised a long session), preferring to stare at his boots instead as he waited for the inevitable questioning to begin.

"_Wake up, little brother." _

_The voice came to him as if from afar, filled with amusement. When he opened his dry, bleary eyes, however, it was to look straight into the other's twinkling ones._

"'_M awake," he mumbled, raising his head from his crossed arms, where it had been resting in an odd, uncomfortable angle. The other chuckled._

"_Of course you are," he conceded lightly. "Care to tell me why you're hiding out here?"_

"_I needed to think," he muttered in a defeated tone, cricking his neck._

"_Oh, **thinking**, were you?" the other chuckled, leaning against the doorframe of Stable Seven and crossing his arms over his chest. " Sounds painful, that."_

"_It is," he whispered, punctuating the statement with a heavy sigh. _

"Harry?"

Harry blinked, finding himself in the Dursleys' living room again, now staring at a pair of high-heeled, gold-buckled purple boots that were clearly not his own. When he raised his head, he saw Dumbledore standing before him, a steaming cup in his hands, as if awaiting a response from him.

"P-pardon?" His brain refused to cooperate.

"Would you like some tea?" Dumbledore offered the cup to him, a kind expression on his face that did not, however, suffice to mask the intense look he fixed upon his dazed-looking student.

"Tea...?" Harry echoed blankly, absently receiving the cup all the same. Frowning, he gave his head a little shake to clear it. He felt as if the headmaster were trying to see through him; not unexpected, that—but still discomforting. He noticed that everyone had fallen back to staring mutely at him.

_Look, they have a new hobby, _the little voice in his head quipped. He mentally rolled its eyes at it.

"Are you feeling quite all right, my boy?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," came the automatic response. Dumbledore did not seem satisfied by it, but he did not, thankfully, press the matter further. With a slight bow of his head, he took a seat a few paces from Harry's, steepling his fingers under his nose and continuing to survey him gravely.

"I am aware that you must be exhausted, Harry, but I must ask you to tell us what happened," said Dumbledore after a few moments.

Harry, who had resorted to stare numbly at his cup, merely nodded. He hadn't expected anything other than that, really.

Harry placed his cup of tea untouched on the coffee next to the plate of biscuits—neither looked very appetising at the moment—and, after an awkward moment, during which he got tongue-tied, he began to speak.

He told them of the Death Eater attack, how he had known where to look for Dudley, how they had appeared in the wasteland, their trip to Inverarray, how he had met Aster, of the Dementors, the horses...

Nobody interrupted him, which was a blessing, but all he saw were expressions of bewilderment (mixed with not a little scepticism), which was annoying. His voice grew increasingly hoarse as the tale wore on, yet his muddled brain seemed to clear with each spoken word, and he felt more awake by the minute as he sifted through memory after memory for the benefit of his silent audience.

* * *

"Oh, come off it—I saw the thing, it was _huge_. A helluva Patronus, little brother."

The distinctive Scottish lilt hurt Rasmus' ears. He was, maybe, fluent in English, but the different accents he encountered sometimes made conversations difficult to understand. He had simply not been in this country for over ten years, and he had not yet had the time to adjust to the variety of forms these people used to tear the language he had taken so many pains to learn into shreds.

Below, the clean boy rolled his eyes at his brother's dejected expression, a long-suffering grimace on his own face. "Even Holly has decided she doesn't hate you half as much as usual—she's even willing to forgive you for giving her pony spiky hair."

"She's a pest," was the muttered response. "And so's that overgrown dog of hers—it looked far better with that punky look anyway."

"She's _amusing_, even if her pony is a vicious menace. I'll grant you that." the other corrected lightly. "Besides, she's only eight. She's _bound_ to be a pest sometimes."

"Whatever..."

"Anyway, back to business. Gramps has everyone listening to the tale of your Patronus over and over again, whether they want it or not. Why d'you think I came looking for you?"

"He's...?" The muddy boy raised his head in bewilderment.

"Insufferable." The clean boy finished the sentence for him, a grin well on its way to spreading on his face. Which faltered as soon as the other one returned to staring ahead of him, looking both confused and hurt.

"Fancy telling me what's going on with you?"

"No." The response was immediate, flat and hollow. Perched safely on one of the rooftop beams, Rasmus gave an exasperated crow. The clean boy seemed to be thinking along the same lines as he was.

"Right." he said firmly. "Well, tea is ready, you'd do well in eating something. C'mon."

"I—"

"Don't tell me you're not done friggin' _thinking_ yet," he erupted impatiently, peeling himself from the wall he had been leaning against. The other seemed to consider the option for a moment.

"Well, I..."

"Get your arse off that barrel and trot it to the bathroom. You stink."

"It's the new fragrance by Caca Chanel," the other said automatically, straightening up a little and letting his legs dangle down the barrel.

_Now that is much more like it. _

The clean boy seemed to think so as well. Rasmus caught the exchange of a glance that seemed to contain an entire conversation, to judge by the half-hearted shrug the muddy boy gave. In response, the clean boy raised an eyebrow, punctuating his unspoken statement by unceremoniously shoving the other off his barrel and grabbing him by the collar of his robes.

"Oy!"

"C'mon, there's mushroom omelette and some leftovers of your ruddy goose," he said, regaining his cheery manner and ignoring the little wince that escaped the other as he was pulled to his feet. "You're just bitter because Gramps caught you," he remarked. "But 'twas your own fault. 'Oy, dinner!' honestly, mate..."

"I _know_," came the growled reply, but a lopsided grin was spreading, unchecked, across his face. "It was tasty, too, don't deny it."

"Wasn't going to, little brother."

"Don't call me that," the other groused, wrenching himself free from the clean boy's grip with a jerk and stumbling backwards. "Makes it sound like I'm a bloody six-year-old."

"That's the idea. Not that you'd understand it, being so _young_ and all," came the flippant reply, as the clean boy threw a hand out to steady the other without looking. "I, on the other hand, being so much more _wiser_ than you—"

"How much sodding _wisdom_ can one gather in five minutes?" the muddy one asked, batting the other's hand away from his back.

"A lifetime, little brother."

"_Don't call me that_. Makes me sound like a reject from some blasted Indian tribe." The words were spat out, but the tone lacked any annoyance. Both made their way back inside, completely oblivious to the large crow that rose into the air and followed in their wake, giving a frustrated cry as it went.

Rasmus snapped his beak angrily. If they carried on like this, he would be following them the whole day and never receive a single answer to his questions. Oh, how he hated wordless communication and childish banter!

_Maybe I should take up my Legilimency studies again...?_

* * *

"What do you mean you need _more_ proof!"

The words tumbled out of Harry's mouth haphazardly, disbelief and outrage etched on his face. He had told them what they needed to know of his latest escape, measuring his words so that there were as few questions as possible, in order to get to the point that concerned him most pressingly. "I was _there_, I saw it happen!"

"Harry..." Dumbledore held up a placating hand, but Harry would have none of it.

"He is going to kill them!" he said hotly, his previous tiredness forgotten. "We have to do something, _there is still time_!"

Uncomfortable silence greeted his words, but Harry ignored it. He had wasted time, precious time in coming to the Order for help. No questions had been asked throughout his account, but the looks sent his way-- of worry and what he now perceived as doubt and mistrust-- had long gone from annoying to nerve-racking. The fact that he had, somehow, managed to lose his copy of the Inverarray Investigator, only made things worse. All the more so when he could _feel_ Voldemort's gleeful anticipation throbbing in time with his scar with every single breath.

He tried, yet again, to put the jumble of images and feelings swirling in his head into words. They were coming faster now, without a discernible pattern; not that anything overly dramatic was happening in any of them—he would simply tune out from whatever was happening to scraps of conversation that made no sense to him at all.

It was a different experience than the visions he had through Voldemort's eyes. There was no pain, for one. The bundle of feelings and sensations that accompanied them left him light-headed—and deeply worried. They, whoever they were, still did not know they were in danger. They thought it was over, had let their guard down.

He forced himself to the present.

"A Death Eater is disabling wards," he repeated urgently for what felt one time too many, trying, and failing, to give his words at least a semblance of calm. "He said that the one of the last ones was linked to sunlight, ancient magic. They will attack at sunset--"

"How do you know that?" Mad-Eye barked from his corner, making everyone except Harry give a start.

"A little bird told me." Harry's tone was icy cold.

"Potter, we cannot risk it." McGonagall shook her head ruefully, averting her gaze from her student's burning glare.

"You have been wrong before..."

"DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT?" Harry shouted, not caring that it was Arthur Weasley speaking. The sharp sting caused by his earnest words was harder to ignore. It spread painfully across his chest, constricting, maddening—all the more so because he knew it was true. He slumped back in his chair, from which he had risen in outrage.

"This is different," he muttered around the lump in his throat, gritting his teeth. "It's not like... like back then." Seeing that he would have to be very clear with them this time, he added, "I'm seeing things through someone else."

To judge by the meaningful looks exchanged by those around him, it had not been the wisest of moves—the majority of the Order now most likely believed he had lost his marbles.

Except, perhaps, Mad-Eye Moody.

"Who?"

"I... _I don't know_." Harry admitted, racking his brains for names that could be of some use, anything at all... to no avail. "What I_ do_ know is that Voldemort will attack at sunset—"

"Even if we went there, how do you suppose we'll find the place?" Mad-Eye rasped, fixing Harry with both eyes this time.

"Take the horses. They know where to go, they live there!" Harry answered immediately. "You can portkey to Inverarray and then ride the horses to the place, they'll know where to go!"

"Harry, I'm sorry." Dumbledore shook his head, forestalling any reply Moody could have been about to utter.

"Are you telling me you are going to let them die _just like that_?" Harry could not believe his ears. What threw him most, though, was the lack of reaction from the other Order members, who were whispering amongst themselves, clearly reluctant to believe him.

"At the moment, it is more important to keep you safe, Harry."

"It's not _me_ you should worry about, it's _them_! Voldemort wants the grandfather—"

"Who is that?"

"I don't know! Voldemort just... just calls him 'the old man'," Harry spoke very fast, blood pounding in his ears as anger and reason warred for control. He wanted to rage at them, but he knew that it would not take him very far in convincing anyone to help. "He's been disabling wards for days, _and_ _he'll kill them unless we do something!_" he glared at the group before him intently, as if he could make them move by willpower alone.

Not that it sufficed.

"Harry, we need more than that to work on." Mr. Weasley threw in reasonably.

"What _more_ do you need? A bloody written invitation?" Harry spat furiously in response.

"We need to gather more information..."

_Oh, no. Not again._

"What we need to do is fight back! We need to warn them! They don't know they're going to be attacked tonight!" Harry's voice was shaking now with barely-suppressed anger.

"We cannot afford to fall into another trap. I _am_ sorry." Dumbledore's tone was final. Harry chose, yet again, to ignore the very tangible reminder of the Department of Mysteries—this was different, dammit!

"You are not even going to try." He glared at the old wizard, disappointment and betrayal seeping in from the corners he had confined them to as he threw every measure of self-control out the window.

"Harry..."

_This is not getting me anywhere._

"So we'll just sit back and let Voldemort win." His tone had become dangerously quiet now, cold as ice.

_A plate was pushed in his direction, and only then did he realise how hungry he was. The three bars of chocolate he had been force-fed by his Gramps seemed to have been ages ago._

"_There's chocolate pudding for dessert," the other said in between mouthfuls of roast goose, shoving the bread basket in the direction of the girl to prevent her from upending her plate. _

"_Ugh," he said eloquently, cutting a grimace. He did not need any more chocolate in his system. The other smirked, and the woman gave a rich laugh._

"_Dad saved you a double helping too," the woman added, her pale green eyes, so different from his own, glinting with amusement. "No, Holly, you've had your share. I saw you sticking your grimy fingers in the pudding earlier—"_

Harry blinked to dispel the vision, which had made him stop mid-movement. Immediately, McGonagall was on her feet.

"Potter, are you all right?"

He rose from his seat. "Is there any _more_ information you need?"

"_But mum, I want some more..." the girl began to whinge. It made his ears hurt._

"_You can have it, Holly. I've had enough chocolate to last me a lifetime," he muttered, staring down his food. _

"_Thank you, cousin." The whingeing stopped, and an angelic face beamed at him. He shrugged, a wry smile on his lips._

"_Like I'd eat anything with your fingers in it." _

"_Oy!" He dodged a piece of bread thrown at him. The other laughed, and the woman raised an eyebrow at him. He shrugged, returning to stare at his food._

_He knew the herd had been stolen, knew that the wards had been broken, knew that the other was in danger—and so were the rest of them. He knew Gramps was glad they had fought off the Dementors, just like he knew that the attack was ultimately his own fault for flying too high. _

_He had attracted them somehow, and Gramps seemed to have a good idea why. But the other knew none of those things, and he wondered if he'd still be spoken to in that fraternal manner if the rest of the family ever found out._

"Harry—" Mr. Weasley was at his side. He hadn't seen him coming.

"Leave me alone." With those words, Harry strode out of the room, wrenched the door open-- and walked straight into Remus Lupin, who had been in the process of entering the house.

* * *

Hogwarts was, in the summer months, the ideal refuge for anyone seeking peace and quiet. There were no students milling about, crowding corridors and causing headaches with their incessant chattering, and a sleepy atmosphere permeated the place, leaving an air of the calm before the storm that was nothing if not enjoyable.

This emptiness also enhanced the slightest noises; a door slammed shut could be heard from afar, as could footsteps echoing down a hallway—disruptions to the silence reigning in the castle that were, for the most part, deeply unwelcome by its current inhabitants. Maybe even by the castle itself; Albus Dumbledore had often claimed Hogwarts was alive, in a way.

Severus Snape did neither bother to wonder or enquire as to how the old headmaster had come to this conclusion; all he craved for was solitude, and the castle, more specifically the distant dungeons, provided the blessed quiet needed to indulge in his favourite activity undisturbed—in the summer, they were a haven where he could forget about all his roles, where he could breathe freely, even if it was the worst time of the year to brew Dark Potions of any sort.

The Potions Master glared at the silver cauldron blubbering merrily away before him. The Exanimus Potion he was attempting to perfect should be brewed at full moon, or during the night at the very least—which was the reason he was preparing it on a sunny afternoon, in the hopes to manage to counter some of its more harmful effects without having his Master become suspicious.

He had to admit he liked the challenge; the list provided by the Dark Lord was extensive, and although most of the potions it contained had been outlawed many years before, he had routinely brewed them before his twentieth year of life. Back then, it had garnered him the recognition of the Dark Lord and his followers, while providing the opportunity to hone his skills to a perfection surpassed by none. Now, however, they held no secret for him—he could have whipped up the tricky Eviscerating Draught in his sleep.

The new challenge posed was much more appealing to the eternal scholar in him. He was to brew the potions in such a manner that their effects were diminished so as to prevent the immediate, albeit painful, death of the ones to drink them—a measure he privately doubted the benefits of. Death was, more often than not, the most merciful manner to deal with the poor sods stupid enough to fall into his Master's hands.

As his luck would have it, however, the Exanimus Potion was not inclined to cooperate with his every effort: instead of the swirling turquoise it had to have acquired, it was now a metallic blue colour. Snape tapped his nose thoughtfully, resolving to let the mixture boil some more before throwing in the phoenix ashes, and turned his attention to the long row of cauldrons of different makes that lined his personal dungeon, pacing along them and surveying the progress of their contents.

The Comminuo Potion was not frothing enough. He made the flames go higher, bending over the cauldron as he did so. It was a precise operation, they had to be just the right intensity, which is why he may be excused for not hearing the approach of a visitor who was, like anyone else, unwelcome to his private dungeon—but for different reasons.

"Isn't it a bit dangerous to have that hair around an open flame? (i)" The cold voice made Severus Snape turn around, nearly upending the cauldron as he did so.

"Lucius," Snape acknowledged coolly, returning to his Comminuo and not giving the slightest reaction to the comment. "The potions are not ready yet."

"I have not come for the potions," Malfoy sneered from the threshold, and Snape froze. "The Master wants you."

"May I enquire as to the occasion?" Snape's voice was, if anything, bored. Years of practice had made him a master in more than one art, and deception had long become one of his most prized survival skills. Inwardly, he was trembling. The Dark Lord rarely summoned him without previous notice, and the outcome of such meetings had seldom been beneficial for him. The fact that he had sent a Death Eater of the innermost circle who had been recently unmasked and was hunted by the Ministry only made the situation more urgent.

"There is a raid, Severus. The Master believes you could use some fresh air... and I concur." Malfoy stalked over to him, eyeing the bubbling contents of the cauldrons in passing. If he noted anything out of the ordinary in some of them, he did not show it. "By Slytherin, how can you endure these fumes?" he asked, batting at the multi-coloured steam issuing from the far end of the line.

It was Snape's turn to sneer. The Malfoys had, perhaps, enough ability and knowledge to become potions masters, but they failed to comply with the requisite passion for the subject. Their excessive love for their appearance hampered their development of the finer skills needed.

"Is the Master aware that the potions shall not be ready on time if I leave?"

"He—he is," Malfoy coughed, having just taken a breath of the pungent steam of one of the poisons. "But he claims the raid is more important. We are to meet him shortly. I've a portkey ready."

Snape cast a few maintenance spells that would surely ruin his potions if he did not manage to return on time and steered Malfoy away from his Exanimus Potion, which was likely to catch his attention; there was only a handful of potions that needed to be in constant contact with pure silver, and none was metallic blue at any stage of preparation.

"Have you any news of the Potter boy?" Malfoy enquired once they had reached the locked Potions classroom, accepting the offered silken handkerchief to wipe his face clean. "I caught a rumour that he was spotted by our side late last night, and must probably have arrived at Surrey in the afternoon."

Snape shook his head, arranging his features into an expression of vague interest, knowing there would be no time to alert the Order now. Not with Lucius tailing him like an overgrown afghan.

"Where was he seen?" he asked, trying not to sound too interested.

"We shall be privy to the details during the meeting, I expect. The Dark Lord will be beside himself with anger once again." Malfoy shrugged carelessly, drawing his pocket watch and a dirty rag from his pocket. "He has planned a major operation, and he will strongly resent any interference from the likes of Potter at this stage."

"I wouldn't worry overmuch about it," Snape replied, sounding truthfully amused. "The brat is most likely too busy mourning over that walking orphanage for fleas and ticks (ii) to worry about anything else," he sneered, eliciting a rarely-seen grin from the other wizard. "And if he has indeed returned, those idiots will be occupied fawning over their precious boy wonder and remain oblivious to anything else."

Malfoy chuckled softly, holding out the rag for Snape to touch.

"Bella will like that one—she is running out of epithets herself."

Snape smirked, even as the portkey activated and he left the Potions Dungeon.

* * *

The sun was drifting steadily westwards, shining, bright and warm, on the once manicured lawn of the Dursley household. The horses that had occupied it had been transported to Hogwarts, using what had to have been the largest portkey ever made, leaving missing chunks of grass and nibbled-on plants behind.

_At least Aunt Petunia won't be able to complain about the lack of fertiliser anymore._

Harry sat on the steps to the kitchen, leaning against the wall and staring at the sky in defeat. The arrival of Lupin, Bill, Tonks and the Twins had momentarily distracted him from his plan just to take the horses again and leave, but the renewed attention on the winged beasts seemed to remind McGonagall of the need to keep Harry away from them.

Only the Granian horses did not seem to want anyone but Harry to approach them, which was now evidenced by matching hoof-shaped bruises growing on Shacklebolt's shoulder and Bill's arm, and a chunk of beard Moonshine had apparently chewed off Dumbledore's beard when the latter was not looking—Hagrid had had to portkey over in order to sort them out. McGonagall had turned a long coil of rope into a portkey, and Harry was charged with the task to bind all horses with it, which he grudgingly did.

Lupin and the rest had been to Inverarray, they had brought the much needed proof of the state of the town, and had also brought up Harry's hopes to sway the Order's decision not to look into the matter of Voldemort's latest plan.

Harry scowled in anger, half-listening to the babble of voices drifting out of the open door. He had had to repeat the high points in his tale, had had to answer tons of questions, which in turn led to other questions and so on, until he was heartily sick of it.

Harry had left the house when Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had returned from the Ministry shortly after Lupin, started saying something about dispatching Aurors to Inverarray and 'assess the conditions of the town' before 'doing something rash'. The fact remained that Voldemort had caused the abrupt emptying of an entire town without anyone being any the wiser.

There was nothing to assess, in Harry's opinion. There was some fighting back to do, but nobody seemed all too keen on the subject. He had told them far and large what he thought on the matter too—not that it had helped in any way.

The Order did not believe him.

To be entirely fair, Lupin, Bill, Tonks and the Twins shared his views, but they were as powerless as he was in swaying Dumbledore. Particularly after the rigorous ear-bashing they received courtesy of Mrs. Weasley, who had apparently not known where they had gone and did her gunk until Mr. Weasley begged her to stop ragging at Lupin.

Part of Harry struggled to see the reason in his current situation: he, above all others, did pointedly _not_ want a repeat presentation of the Department of Mysteries fiasco. He knew it had all been his fault, but he had not, until now, realised just how far his credibility had dropped in the Order's eyes.

He knew he would never forgive himself if someone else died because of his rashness. Yet now, people could die if he did _nothing_. He was torn between trusting Dumbledore to know what to do and taking matters in his own hands.

It was getting late, and the sun would set within the hour. Was there nothing to be done? The Order was still debating, while they waited for a group of Ministry Aurors to return from their investigation mission.

Guilt was gnawing at his insides again, coupled with the rapidly growing seed of doubt that had been planted by Mr. Weasley's words earlier on, feeding on memories too fresh to be ignored. What if it was indeed a trap? What if Voldemort had planted those images in his head to lure the Order wherever Harry was trying to send them to and do them all in? He could not find any argument to counter this logic, except for the very real feeling of _being there_ whenever he had one of those flashes, and that was hardly good enough for even himself now. But then... that would be the sort of thing the bastard specialised in. Was he, Harry, really going doolally?

"YOU TWO HAD BETTER SHUT YOUR MOUTHS, YOU ARE IN ENOUGH TROUBLE AS IT IS!" Mrs. Weasley screamed shrilly, bringing Harry's musings to an abrupt end. There was a series of mutinous mutters, followed by an ominous-sounding,

"DON'T YOU _DARE_, FRED AND GEORGE—"

Harry hung his head, gritting his teeth. Just when things seemed to look up, there was something that made them worse.

"_C'mon, Altair, 's time to go."_

"_Hoot." The owl nipped his ear in what could only be termed a reassuring manner, still perched on his shoulder._

"_Be careful—none of the others have returned." Another nip, and Altair spread his dark wings wide. One heave, and he was gone._

_He followed his owl's flight with his eyes, wishing he knew what the scroll it bore was about. Suddenly, there was a shriek, a flash of fire—and Altair the eagle owl was no more._

_He blinked; it had happened too fast for his mind to register it outright. The ball of fire that had been his owl plummeted to the ground._

"_No—" He broke into a sprint, dread replacing what moments earlier had been hope--_

"Butterbeer, Harry?" Fred's cheerful voice said behind him. He looked up, only to see a bottle of the said drink dangling before his eyes. "It's nice and cold..."

Fred plumped down at his side, handing him the bottle and taking a swig out of his own with relish, smacking his lips before turning to him.

"Goes down a treat, doesn't it?"

Harry gave him a one-shouldered shrug.

"They're not going, are they?" he muttered darkly.

Fred took another swig, resting his elbows on the step behind him and growing a scowl to match Harry's. "Nope," he said bluntly, turning to stare at the sky as well. "Shacklebolt sent a team of Aurors to investigate..."

"They say they need more information to work on," said George, carrying a plate of sandwiches. "Budge, you two."

"They're all sodding obsessed with gathering information," Fred muttered around a mouthful of ham-and-cheese sandwich.

"They'll be the best informed corpses of the world," George agreed, handing Harry a sandwich and smacking him around the head with it when he refused. "Eat. 'S no good to be hacked off on an empty stomach," he said, eliciting a humourless snort from him.

For a moment, nobody spoke. The twins merely observed Harry as he tossed his sandwich back onto the plate and disentangled a piece of cheese from his hair.

"But you were there, weren't you? Surely that has to count for something!" Harry erupted, throwing the bits of cheese to the ground.

"Yeah, they now believe that this Inverarray town was indeed emptied by Dementors..." Fred muttered.

"...but Dumbledore still thinks You-Know-Who is trying to lure you into a trap, so they won't go," George finished for him. "McGonagall was against it, too. I don't think I've ever seen her lips go that thin."

"Well, it's obvious where she keeps her wand, isn't it? (iii)" Harry glared at a clump of grass that had landed on his foot earlier on, kicked it, and threw his head back with a growl.

The Twins snorted in unison.

"D'you think she's got trouble pulling it out? (iii)" George whispered, snickering. Harry shrugged.

"Speaking of which," Fred said, looking over his shoulder to make sure they would not be overheard, "how did it work?"

"Eh?" Harry shot the twins a sharp look, momentarily lost. They were both staring keenly at him. "What are you on about?" he asked when he saw neither was going to explain anything.

For an answer, Fred dug a brightly-coloured something out of his pocket and lobbed it onto his lap. Looking down, Harry recognised a Whiz-Bang wrapper.

"Oh. That..."

"You _summoned_ that whale to get it out of the shop?" Fred guffawed moments later when Harry had finished that particular account. George was rolling with laughter, unable to speak since Harry told them where he had attached the fireworks.

"Calling Dudley a whale is an insult to whales every where, (i)" Harry corrected, but he could not help a small, albeit rueful, smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You should have seen him landing smack onto that Death Eater on the pier—squashed him into a pulp."

"What do you reckon they were doing there?" George asked, wiping tears of laughter from his face.

Harry sobered up at once. "They were extracting magical cores, or at least that's what I think they were doing," he said, and gave a detailed account of what he had seen at the pier.

* * *

"Too late, old man," Rasmus said with deep satisfaction, letting the broken body of the crow fall to the ground without sparing it a second look. He had not managed to obtain the answers he craved, but at least he had whiled away the daytime hours and made sure that old Angus did not find out they were trapped until it was too late.

One of the boys had come up with the foolish idea to send out an additional owl when the old man had complained about the lack of response. Had not his wards been in place, Rasmus doubted his side would have such an excellent opportunity to have themselves a battle, undisturbed by external interference.

The last rays of the sun were shining on his face, and Rasmus' smile acquired a manic glint to it; the thrill of battle was coursing through him now, the ultimate emotion—the only one worth feeling.

It was time.

He drew his wand and set to work, not bothering to leave the eaves of the cedar tree to do so.

* * *

"Did you tell Dumbledore?"

Harry nodded darkly.

"What did he say, then?" George prodded.

"What do you think he said?" Harry snapped. "He said that it wasn't enough to risk anyone going there straight away."

"That's a load of dung," said Fred.

"Yeah, well. He can put that in his bloody pipe and smoke it for all the good it'll do." Harry picked idly at the crumbs left on the plate, and suddenly found himself in a wide hall, shaking his head to clear it.

_Gramps leapt to his feet, signalling for him to follow. Both hurried outside to reach the spot where a few smouldering feathers marked the remains of his trusty Altair, the eagle owl who never had failed a delivery before._

"_Connor..." The old man's voice was choked._

"_Yes." His own was trembling._

"_Check the escape passage. You know which."_

"_I already did. I could not get through the back door."_

_The meaning of his own words sank in._

**_We're trapped. We're _trapped_... Merlin._**

"_We're trapped," the old man muttered, his green eyes glinting in the reddish sun. He turned to him and grabbed his arm. "You know what to do."_

_**No, I don't,** he wanted to shout at the old man. **I can't understand half of what you want me to, I can't think of anything to do at the moment, the horses are gone and we are trapped and it's all my fault!**_

"_We'll burn like Altair," he said quietly instead, shaking his head. _

_The old man pulled him closer, his eyes boring into his much like they had the previous night, before the Dementor attack._

"_I'll **take these down** and you **will** get through. You know where to go. Whatever happens, Connor—**you have to keep him safe.** Remember that."_

"_What if..." he trailed off lamely, not wanting to waste time, yet needing to know all the same. _

"_If anything happens to me, the last key lies with you. No—look at me! You know where to go, and you will do it." There was nothing else to do but comply._

"_I will." For the space of a breath, the old wizards' expression softened, and he graced him with the warmest of smiles. No words were spoken, but he understood. He might not like the arrangements, but he understood the need for them, and at the moment, it was enough to work on._

_It had to be._

"_Round up Chris and Holly, and don't let them out of your sight. I'll need your aunt and uncle to help me. Do not sound the alarm." Gramps was all business once more._

"_Shouldn't we tell—"_

"_**I** shall tell him when the time comes. Right now, I want you three out of here. Wait at the safe house for us. Now **get your brother and Holly and keep them out of trouble."**_

_He bolted away, his wand in a white-clutched hold._

The garden of Privet Drive came into focus again, and Harry realised he was panting.

"Harry...?"

Harry did not answer. He excused himself and made his way shakily to the bathroom, where he leaned against the sink, splashing water on his face and trying to stop trembling. What was wrong with him? Was he losing his mind?

He closed his eyes, letting the cold water trickle down his face.

Was it all one of Voldemort's traps?

His scar seared.

"_It is time, my Lord and Master," Rasmus announced with a wide grin, speaking through the green vapour issuing from Harry's hand. "The last ward will be down within a few moments. You can move to the rendezvous point now."_

"_Excellent, Rasmus." Harry nodded at the group of black-robed people surrounding him, a wide, pleased smile upon his face. "We shall arrive shortly."_

_The vapour vanished into thin air._

"_At last someone worthy of the honour to partake in the innermost circle," Harry said with satisfaction to no one in particular, receiving a many-voiced assent from his Death Eaters in response. He regarded them manically, his eyes glowing like coals in the semi-darkness of his chambers. "You know what to do. Do not disappoint me this time."_

_He rose to his feet in a sweeping motion, and a dark green cloak appeared upon his shoulders. He snapped his deathly white fingers._

"_Wormtail. My new wand, if you please. Activate the portkeys."_

"Open up, Harry!"

Harry had fallen to his knees, cradling his head in his hands. He was distantly aware of someone banging on the bathroom door and tried to answer, to tell them he was fine, but he couldn't speak. His scar was burning, his vision was blurry, and he had enough trouble filling his lungs with air as it was.

Outside, the sun ended its travel across the sky and disappeared slowly in the horizon, bathing the world in hues of deep red and orange, a last goodbye before nightfall.

* * *

Chris was playing Exploding Snap with Holly in the den, both having tired of watching Muggle flicks on the telly. The look in Connor's eyes when he burst into the room, gasping for breath, was enough to have him on his feet, looking for the source of trouble.

He did not ask any questions as Connor wordlessly summoned their cloaks and threw one at him. Instead, he took Holly by the hand and wrapped her in her favourite green cloak.

"It's cold outside," he explained calmly.

"It'll get colder," said Connor, grabbing a bag full of chocolate frogs Gramps had left in the entrance hall. He led them mutely outside, his wand ready and his eyes roaming across the quickly darkening area. It was cold and windy, and a storm seemed to be brewing.

Holly began to whimper. Chris hastily comforted her and placed a protective arm around her shoulders, watching his brother stealing around the corner.

Connor kept flat against the wall of the inner courtyard as he looked around for any indication of... of what, exactly? He didn't know what to expect, and yet... he had this gut-feeling that he would know soon enough.

He saw some movement on a tree right outside the courtyard. The world flashed bright red—

He backed off, even as dark-robed figures blasted the main gate apart and entered the courtyard—he stopped in his tracks, eyes riveted on the central figure, tall and ghostly pale, he could feel him spreading his power to engulf them all--

_Voldemort. _

His heart began to hammer faster, while his brain brought two and two together. Something clicked into place, and everything suddenly made sense.

_Hands held him down, limiting his body's movement, while urgent voices yelled for a Healer. He screamed, tried to break free--_

He shook his head to clear it.

_Not now!_

A hand grabbed him from behind, pulling him deeper into the shadows. Turning around, he saw Chris staring intently at the wizards and witches before them.

"Who are they?" he breathed, eyes wide.

_You know what to do._

"Death Eaters. C'mon, let's get out of here." Connor led the way to the back door, in the hopes that Gramps had indeed managed to open the way for them.

They never reached it.

An explosion rocked the ground, punctuated by a bloodcurdling cry of victory. Connor lost his footing and went crashing to the ground, unable to do much other than cover his head with his arms as the outer wall of the house ceased to exist and debris flew at them, breaking the windows into pieces.

"Voldemort!"

The challenge rang loudly amidst the din, and everything seemed to come to a halt. Connor raised his head to see a tall, broad-shouldered figure step into the courtyard, irradiating so much power that the air seemed to crackle with it.

It took him an additional moment to realise it was his old Gramps, robes billowing in the wind, wand outstretched before him, his gnarled staff in his other hand.

"Angus." Voldemort bowed his head, drawing his wand.

"You shall leave this house. Now." Gramps' voice was as clear as it was cold. He seemed to have grown taller, younger, all of a sudden.

"Not before I collect what I came for, old man." Voldemort's tone was pleasant, almost. "You hoard great many secrets in that grizzled head of yours—and you shall give them to me, make no mistake." He turned to the figure to his right. "Rasmus, would you like to do the honours?"

"Gladly."

* * *

TBC.

A/N: Lookit! A cliffie! This has been easily the hardest chapter to write, not only because of what is happening in it, but also due to the variety of points of view that begin to appear. Please leave a review, ye merry hippogriffs, else I'll set Rasmus on y'all. :smirk: No, really...

DND

A few definitions:

Winged Horses: The breed of the grey horses is called Granian, and they are supposed to be the fastest of the four types of winged horses in Potterverse (Aethonan, Abraxan and Thestral being the others).

As for the potions:

Comminuo—to weaken, damage

Exanimus—to lose will, courage, spirit.


	15. Hyperaware

**Disclaimer: I'm not JKR, Harry Potter is not mine, and this disclaimer would probably be as useless as a wax cauldron if she and WB decided to sue me—which would be a bummer. I'm broke, and not getting any cash whatsoever out of this. Unless you count reviews as currency. In that case, I feel like a millionaire already. **

**Dedications:** To the greatly talented MJ, for her rendition of Inverarray, Dudley in his tracksuit and the muchly-loved art of my recently acquired godkid (pimping of her site in my profile, fanart at the group as well, where you can worship her as much as you like). Congratulations on making Pratt!

To Japs, who shall not be around for a few weeks due to internet problems. Our hearts are with you.

To everyone who took the time to review, and lastly, to Laura, for putting up with Time for so long. Girl, that's really a feat of endurance. I'd not have lasted this long, myself. Have some chocolate and be happy.

**Note(s): ** This chapter is loaded, even for my usual standards. The first section alone took longer to write and edit than some of the longer chapters—usually, I write the final version directly, but this time I ended up in a quagmire of no less than seven different versions. It got confusing, even for me, at some point—mainly due to the lack of time to sit at the computer for hours on end.

There's a fair share of PoV (point of view) switches—most are Harry's, but either through his own, Voldywarts', or Connor's eyes. The chapter is mostly OC-centric, and if a part of Time could be termed the heart, this here would be it. It's been a tough nut to crack, but I think I managed to. Kinda. I'll let you all be the judges of that.

Harry's PoV is indicated by normal text, Voldie's and Connor's are _italicised_, and given the lack of different fonts, whoever Harry is seeing things through is left for you to figure out. **_Bold italics_** indicate thoughts, whenever applicable, otherwise I've stuck to the usual italicised thought format.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen - Hyperaware**

Hands held him down, limiting his body's movement, while urgent voices yelled for a Healer. He screamed, tried to break free, clawing at his burning forehead—

_Harry laughed. Rasmus had indeed not wasted these past years; his skills had improved noticeably. The old man would not last the night._

_He stepped aside and ducked lightly out of the way of a stray jinx, gesturing for his followers to watch in a circle. Such a spectacle was hard to come by, these days._

Someone was half-dragging him to a sofa. He was too weak to object.

"They're starting," Harry said thickly, his hands never leaving his head.

_An explosion rocked the ground, punctuated by a bloodcurdling cry of victory. He lost his footing and went crashing down, unable to do much other than cover his head with his arms as the outer wall of the house ceased to exist and debris flew at them, breaking the windows into pieces. Sound rushed in his ears, the shouts of spells being cast by the Death Eaters—_

"Sit down here, Harry..."

Harry blinked numbly, thought he saw Dumbledore's eyes, but he wasn't sure.

"They're starting now." He shivered, wrenching his eyes shut. He could not hold himself upright.

_He raised his head, spotted the other, who was struggling to his feet, pulling the girl by the hand to follow. In the background, two dark-robed figures were duelling, the multi-coloured beams of the spells providing flashes of light to the scene, as if in some morbid sort of laser show. Other figures were milling about, sending spells of their own against a huddle of people, whom he recognised as his aunt, her husband, and a handful of others. Holly shouted for her mum, her voice tiny in the din—he snapped into motion._

"How are you feeling?" A hand steadied him as he slid sideways down the seat.

_**Stupid question, that.**_

"C-cold..." he slurred. He wanted to say more, but his brain had jammed around the stabbing pain in his scar. A cup of a steaming something was pressed against his lips, and a sweet, scalding liquid poured down his throat, sending a wave of warmth with every reluctant swallow that did not, however, make him feel any better.

"He needs a Healer—"

"Who can we trust?"

"Should we take him to St. Mungo's?"

"Too dangerous—I'll set up a portkey to Hogwarts—"

"Bring Poppy in, we cannot risk... moving him... dition... worsen." Dumbledore sounded strangely distant, his blurred image dissolving into a dark, cold place where the only light was provided by the beam of spells and fire, where chaos and fear reigned.

"He's gone all cold and clammy—" There was a bustle of movement, and Harry felt himself being enveloped in a warm blanket, dimly aware that he was shaking uncontrollably.

"Help is coming, Harry... hang on." Lupin's voice was shaking. Harry didn't think he'd ever heard it _shake_...

No amount of blinking could now dispel the voices and images swirling in his head. It was like wading in a swamp.

He lost all track of time.

Images came in and out of focus, melding with the Dursleys' living room like a movie that was playing at the same time, overlapping reality—and he was required to be present and perform as two characters all at once. The voices in his head came louder at times, like a badly-tuned wireless, drowning out whatever it was that the ones on his side were saying at the moment; it sounded like a lot of nonsense to Harry's ears anyway...

_An old wizard, blasting a hole in the earth that sent an opponent flying, while he looked on, twirling his wand idly between his ghostly fingers—_

_A tight-knit group of wizards and witches duelling what he knew to be Death Eaters, outnumbered at least two to one, while he led the way along a roofed, arched section of the inner courtyard, seeking a way of escape—he leapt back in time to avoid a pillar that came crashing down on them, turned to see a Death Eater raising his wand for a second time—_

_Flames issuing out of a broken window, even as the roof fell in... his shrill laughter, cold and piercing in the darkness, echoed off burning, crumbling walls—_

He wanted to help them, whoever they were, he wanted to do something, anything but watch the events unfold, trapped in a living cage, unable to move of his own will.

"Harry, can you hear me?" Lupin sounded earnestly frightened.

'**_Course I can..._**

His head weighed a ton. He couldn't keep it upright, so he didn't even bother trying to move. It drooped to a side, coming to rest against what had to be Lupin's chest. He could hear the wild tattoo of his Professor's heart, oddly soothing in the whirlwind of alien emotions, images and sounds his world was reduced to...

_Around him, the shouts and confusion were music to his ears. The old manor was burning, crumbling to pieces, and the defenders were sorely outnumbered. He had been correct in bringing in his entire Inner Circle, just to make sure there would be no mistakes: the daughter could fight well, and he recognised the one standing beside her—Robert McFusty. _

_He would pay that particular clan a visit shortly, and if they lacked his help, it would be laughably easy to take what he needed from them._

_The old man was drawing on his reserves to shield his family from the onslaught, but he was being ultimately drained. Rasmus turned to him and gave him a smile of triumph. Harry smiled back._

_A few minutes, then, and Angus McAlpin would be his._

"_Avada Kedavra!" The shout, in a female voice, made Harry whip around, in time to be pushed aside by one of his Death Eaters, who wasted no time at all and responded in kind._

_In his urgency, the Death Eater's silver mask fell to the ground with a clatter. He bent over to retrieve it, even as the witch sank to the ground, her lifeless eyes reflecting the multicoloured jets of light of the spells whizzing overhead._

"_My Lord, can you stand? Here, allow me—" Severus Snape helped him to his feet._

"_NOOO_!" Harry howled, sitting bolt upright and wrenching himself free of Lupin's grip. His hands went to his head, in a futile attempt to soothe the stabs of pain coursing through his scar. "He's—he's killed her!" he gasped frantically, "Snape—"

"Harry, calm down—"

"Help them, then!"

Mad-Eye appeared in his field of vision, both his eyes fixed on him.

"Easy, Potter. Tell me what happened."

"H-he—Sn—k-killed..." Harry trailed off, wild-eyed, swallowing back a wave of nausea. The details of what he had just witnessed were trickling away, disappearing into nothingness. For a moment, the only sounds to be heard were those of Harry's heaving breaths.

"Potter, concentrate. _Speak to me_." Mad-Eye's rasp, in its harshness, helped him focus. "Who did he kill?"

"I don't know—he..." Harry looked up slowly, as if just remembering where he was. He had a name. "McAlpin," he choked out. "McAlpin—that's who... that's who he's after!"

"Mc..._Alpin_?" Mad-Eye looked gobsmacked. "Are you certain?"

"I think." Harry racked his brains. Everything was muddled, as usual after a vision.

"What now?" Mad-Eye looked meaningfully at Remus, whose face suddenly turned ashen. Harry felt Lupin's breath catch. He did not dwell on that, however.

**_What now? What do you mean,_ what now**

"Help them!" he erupted. "Somebody has to—" Harry didn't finish the sentence. The Dursleys' living room faded away, he was swept away once more.

"_Oy, there are some more here!"_

_**Damn.**_

_He never saw it coming, not until it was too late—a jet of light impacted the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the floor of what once had been the den. _

Harry's reaction was immediate, instinctive. He raised his wand, turned around, took quick aim.

"_Incendio!" The yellow beam of the Fire Charm shattered upon the shield the Death Eater had brought up, but it was enough to distract him—he scrambled to his feet and grabbed the other by the arm._

_He fired a Stunner over his head and pushed the others behind a pile of rubble before the Death Eater fell. Gramps was still standing, and it was his task to keep Voldemort from noticing them, his task to get them out of here and to the safe house._

_**At all costs.**_

_Holly whimpered against the other, covering her ears with her hands. He did not spare her half a glance._

"_Shut up and stay down," Harry muttered, peering over the rubble towards the Stunned Death Eater. Others would come._

"_Are you all right?" The other whispered. He nodded dazedly, wiping blood from the side of his head where the spell had hit. A dull, throbbing pain in his skull now added to his troubles. He did his best to ignore it, shaking his head to clear it from the visions that had been invading his mind..._

"_**Harry, wake up." Somebody was holding him still, while his body was adamant on spasming out of its own accord..**._

"_... Connor? Snap out of it. You keep twitching like that." The other was gripping his arm, giving him little shakes, as he had been told to do whenever he zoned out._

_**Not now, dammit!**_

_He batted the other's hand away, the vision faded._

"_You all—?"_

"_Shush, they're coming—"_

His head was still resting against a warm, breathing something. A something that was speaking—he could feel the vibrations of every word against his ear.

"Harry, can you hear me?"

_**Lupin...**_

"Harry, wake up!"

"Am... awake..." Harry mumbled after a few long moments, cursing his slow tongue for slurring. He tried, yet again, to explain. "Can't... Voldemort... McAlpin—"

"Poppy! Remus, she's here!" Mrs. Weasley sounded close to hysterics. What was going on?

Harry opened his eyes a crack, only to come to the quick conclusion that it wasn't the wisest thing to do; the electric lamps had all been turned on and the bright light hurt. He groaned against Lupin's arms.

Poppy Pomfrey arrived in a sweep of stark white robes, followed by the Weasley Twins, puffing as they carried a large trunk between them.

"Where is he?" she snapped by way of a greeting, storming past Molly Weasley and heading towards the living room without waiting for an answer. Moments later, she was looming over Harry, a deep scowl on her face. "You again. What happened this time?"

Harry blinked blearily at her, past the throbbing in his left eye and skull. He wanted to answer, but his entire body had acquired a mind of its own and decided to go on strike—his mind was working overtime, while the rest of him failed to respond to any of his brain's commands.

A diagnostic spell was cast, while his pulse and temperature were taken.

"His scar is bleeding, Lupin. Hold his head still..." Madam Pomfrey came briefly into sight, holding a cloth. Which she pressed against his head, sending a sharp wave of pain that made him jerk away from her, wincing. "Stay still now, Potter..."

"Gnn—no..." Harry managed, somehow, to glare at the nurse, who glared right back. Apparently she had yet to forgive him for his outburst on the previous week.

"Can you move, Potter?"

"No."

* * *

"I think a quick recap is in order." Kingsley Shacklebolt dragged a hand over his bald pate and face, tossed a stack of parchment on the dining room table, and regarded the witches and wizards around him intently. All faces wore traces of weariness in varying degrees, accentuated with worry, annoyance, anxiety, regret.

_Not good._

In his career as an Auror, Shacklebolt had learned to distinguish between the things he could do and the ones that exceeded his capacities—like healing, for example. Certainly, he was worried for young Potter, just like everyone else, but the best help he could give him now was stay clear from the nurse and let her work. So he did, likely saving his bald scalp in the process.

Waiting for the outcome of something that was beyond his control, however, was nothing short of torture. Which was one of the reasons for this impromptu reporting session: now Potter was back, most would be inclined to ignore whatever was happening outside his immediate vicinity, and he, for one, could not allow this to happen.

Besides, they were stuck in the dining room, and going anywhere else required them to cross the living room anyway.

_Best make something of it._

It was one thing _not_ to rush madly into danger, and it was quite another to _pretend_ _there was no_ _danger_ just because they had Potter back. The first was a controlled, _educated_ inaction to a human reaction, whereas the second was an uncontrolled human reaction to an educated _conclusion_. Both centred around the same elemental feeling:

Fear.

Of You-Know-Who. Of repeating mistakes of the past. Of making new ones.

For Potter. Of doing something that might worsen his condition, whatever it was that ailed him. Of doing nothing, and worsening his condition anyway.

It was to be expected—Shacklebolt doubted anyone had ever witnessed just how Harry's link with You-Know-Who worked, and it was a shocking sight. They had certainly known Potter's scar to "hurt" occasionally, but now, seeing things firsthand, the word 'hurt' simply did not fit.

_And we've no idea how to help him._

Shacklebolt cleared his throat.

Most of the Order were hardly paying attention to him. Even Mad-Eye was standing next to the Hogwarts School Nurse, who had ushered them all out of the living room to examine her patient, and Lupin had yet to cross the threshold to the dining room. Arthur and Molly Weasley were covering the doorway, eyes fixed with apprehension upon the one they had long considered a surrogate son.

"What _do_ we know?" Shacklebolt asked nonetheless. The few Aurors and war veterans in the group immediately turned towards him. They had been through this countless times before, and although their bodies had aged, their memories remained quite fresh, it seemed.

They needed to focus, to determine where they stood and decide upon action. The past three days had been spent turning half the country in and out in the search for Potter, in the chase of Death Eaters who simply disappeared without a trace, and attempting to find clues to whatever was going on at the moment.

Which was something none of them could answer, hence the need for the report.

"Not nearly enough," Fred Weasley muttered from the far end of the room. "Am I correct?"

"Let's start at the beginning," Shacklebolt replied in his deep bass, sifting through his notes and completely ignoring the scathing tone of Fred's words.

"Always a good thing, that," George acknowledged sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You-Know-Who has taken Azkaban," Shacklebolt continued, as if there had been no interruption. "We have established that he fully controls the Dementors now."

"Which was obvious to us from the start..." Hestia Jones threw in, scowling. She was sitting across the table from Shacklebolt, and reached for the notes he discarded with her free hand. Her arm was held in a sling, which seemed to irritate her to no end. An Auror lacking full use of his or her wand arm was bound to be.

"Minister Fudge is an idiot," McGonagall said dryly. "But I'm repeating myself."

"You-Know-Who has taken Azkaban," Shacklebolt resumed, closing his eyes briefly. Whether it was out of tiredness or a last resort not to lose his famed calmness, remained to be seen. "He's emptied the harbour town of Inverarray without anyone knowing, and—"

"Do you think the wardens are on his side?" Arthur Weasley cut in from the doorway, where he was keeping an eye out for Harry, who was in turn being told off by Madam Pomfrey in an increasingly loud voice.

Shacklebolt's reply caught the attention of the entire assembly at last.

"Either they are on his side or under the Imperius Curse—I sent an owl asking for an update on security and I received a message saying everything was all right. It was not forged, which should give us a fair idea."

"And now Voldemort—" Lupin had entered the room when it appeared that Harry would not pass out again. He was not bothered by the hisses that swept across the room, and strode around the table to look over Shacklebolt's shoulder. "Voldemort is looking for what we believe to be wand cores. Any ideas of the magical properties of..." he checked the list they had made. "Wings, heartstrings, and central nervous system of Granians and Aethonans?"

There was a round of shrugs and headshakes. Lupin frowned.

"Maybe he is not after wand cores, but something else?" McGonagall offered.

"What, like potion ingredients?" Dedalus Diggle piped up, fingering his violet top hat nervously. He had always been an excitable fellow, but not even Lupin was a better researcher, that was for sure.

"I don't remember ever hearing of the uses of flying horses in potion making," Emmeline Vance muttered thoughtfully, tapping her nose with her wand.

"Or in anything else, for that matter," George added with a roll of his eyes. "Anyone in Care of Magical Creatures knows that much."

"We shall have to ask Severus, then." Shacklebolt shot Molly Weasley a warning look. The last thing they needed at the moment was another outburst of her temper. All Weasleys in a foul mood already, and the argument about the Twins' decision to leave Hogwarts would not get them anywhere. Molly huffed at him, but turned back to watching Harry.

"What of the Aurors who went to Inverarray?" Bill asked abruptly.

There was a snort in the background. All heads turned as one to look at Harry, who was sitting on the sofa, shivering slightly. His gaze was fixed at a spot on the floor.

"They are searching for any wizarding dwellings in the area," Jones replied evenly. "Should there be any indication of fighting, there is a team of Hit Wizards prepared to portkey to any location, but their last report indicated they had found nothing yet."

Mad-Eye opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a gagging sound, and everyone turned as one to see what was going on with Harry.

"I... I said I'm... I'm not feverish!" Harry gasped indignantly, weakly recoiling from the smoking goblet the nurse was holding to his lips. "S... stop it, I won't drink..."

"You _shall_ do as you are told, _Mister_ Potter," Madame Pomfrey snarled in return. "I need to regulate your temperature, now drink up—"

"Bollocks to that." Harry responded with a defiant scowl. "_I don't have a fever_!"

"Potter, language!" McGonagall snapped automatically, but was largely ignored.

"Last time I checked, _I_ was still the healer!" Madame Pomfrey said angrily, closing in on her less-than cooperative patient.

"Last time _I _checked—" Harry began hotly, but was cut off when Pomfrey lunged at him, goblet in hand.

"If they're at each other's throats, then it can't be that bad, can it?" Lupin mused aloud, earning himself a few relieved chuckles.

A short-lived battle ensued, during which Harry held himself valiantly against the nurse, but it was obvious to everyone that he was done up as a kipper. Not a minute later, there was a gurgling, choking noise and Madame Pomfrey emerged with a triumphant, "AHA!" followed by an imperious, "_Swallow_, Mr. Potter."

Harry choked and spluttered, his face contorted in a grimace that told volumes of the taste of the potion. To judge by the satisfied smirk on the nurse's face, he did swallow.

"Now," the nurse said slowly and clearly, her tone menacing, "Lie down, you'll feel better."

"What, you think I have the flu or something?" Harry muttered through gritted teeth, visibly trying not to gag.

"Mr. Potter, you do not have a fever nor do you have the flu," the nurse declared tersely. Harry's head, which had momentarily disappeared behind the back of the sofa, bobbed up at once, and Pomfrey took a step back.

"Then why—"

"Your temperature is too low. Now lie _down_ and stop looking at me like that. The Warming Potion might make you dizzy."

"You mean more than I already am?"

Fred snickered.

"Alastor?" Shacklebolt looked at the Ex-Auror, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, his magical eye roving in every possible direction, the other fixed on his boots.

"Potter mentioned a name. McAlpin. It sounds familiar, but I can't place them at all. Anyone know of them?"

"I... think it sounds familiar too, but..." Lupin ran a hand through his hair. "No, sorry."

"Sort of rings a bell..." said Dung, furrowing his brow and acquiring an even more accurate bloodhound look. "They're no crooks though, I'd remember them if they were."

"The name McAlpin is familiar, I know it...but I can't remember it, either." McGonagall said, sounding almost scandalised that she had forgotten whom it belonged to.

"Derrick McAlpin was the developer of the Fidelius Charm two hundred years ago," Harry's voice trailed in from the living room.

"No, that's not it," Dung muttered shaking his head, still thinking hard.

Shacklebolt whipped around, to see Harry sitting up straight on the sofa. Or, at least, trying to; his face was flushed and sweaty, and he looked quite uncomfortable. Pomfrey had turned her back on him, and was busy rummaging in her trunk.

"How do you know that, Potter?"

"I've got his chocolate frog card," was the simple reply. Upon noticing the baffled looks sent his way, he elaborated. "I like Chocolate Frogs, and I've got over seventeen cards of him, all right? Honestly..." Harry rolled his eyes with an exasperated snort.

"Angus McAlpin was the head of the Department of Mysteries during the First War," Diggle said suddenly, clapping his tiny hand against his forehead and sending his top hat flying.

"Yes, that's right!" Lupin's eyes lit up. "He...he specialised in Memory Magic, like his father. He and his entire family disappeared some time before Harry defeated Voldemort in 1981." He said all this in a rush, as if he feared he would forget it all again unless he blurted it out. "It doesn't make sense," he added after a pause.

"They're all _dead_?"

"But why would You-Know-Who go chasing after...?"

"What if they're _not_ dead, ever think of that?"

"They disappeared years ago. They could be."

"According to Harry, they're not."

"They will be, if we don't manage to find them soon."

"The Aurors won't find anything." Harry's tone was both derisive and strained, yet still coated with anger, if any such thing was possible. He was half-heartedly trying to shrug out of his robes and tugging at the collar of his jumper, but only managed to tangle himself in the black fabric and gave up with a defeated sigh.

"What are you talking about, Potter?" Shacklebolt went to his feet. He didn't like Potter's tone, the certainty it contained, any more than the feeling of foreboding that crept up on him every time the young wizard opened his mouth.

"I... don't know," Harry admitted shakily after a moment. "I just know they won't find anything."

"How can you—"

Harry's eyes hardened, and he glared at the group from over his shoulder.

"The Aurors did not take the horses," he snapped. "The horses know how to get there, and you did not use them!"

"Harry, we have been over this before—"

"These are Aurors, if there is anything to be found, they will find it."

"_THINK_, DAMMIT!" Harry shouted, making everyone jump in shock. "WHAT IF THE PLACE IS UNPLOTTABLE? WHAT IF IT IS UNDER THE FIDELIUS CHARM? EH? THE HORSES CAN TAKE YOU THERE, YOU CAN PORTKEY THEM—"

"Potter, it could be a trap."

"_BOLLOCKS_! IF IT'S A TRAP, THEN WHY DIDN'T THE HORSES TAKE _ME_ STRAIGHT TO VOLDEMORT WHEN THEY HAD THE CHANCE?" Harry shouted, his voice cracking from the strain.

"Mr. Potter, you are in no condition to shout," Pomfrey interrupted Harry's rant furiously. "If I hear one more raised voice, I shall place a Silencing Charm on you and_ leave it there_. Understood?"

Harry continued to glare at Shacklebolt, chest heaving, but had the sense to say nothing.

"As for the rest of you, you are overexciting my patient. This boy needs rest and he _will have it,_ if I have to petrify the lot of you." With these words, the nurse swept out to the kitchen.

"Whatever you do, you won't get there until they have destroyed the place. Some response capacity you have." Harry slumped against his seat, closing his eyes wearily. "I shouldn't have come back," he whispered to himself.

"Kingsley, do you still reckon it's a trap?" Arthur asked uneasily.

"If they're using the magical containment spells they set up here, nobody will know until it's too late." Bill said, looking out the window. "I have never seen such wards before."

"Their magic can't be traced, either," Hestia cut in. "Unless we find a way around this, we shan't have a chance against them." Nobody had to ask who 'they' were. A tense silence followed Hestia's words, but it was short-lived.

_Thump._

"Did you hear that?" Hestia demanded, drawing her wand.

"Harry!" Molly gasped, pointing at the prone figure on the living room floor.

Harry was not moving. In three strides, Lupin was at his side.

* * *

_He wanted to turn around and fight, not run like a cornered rabbit—cries of pain mingled with the manic laughter of the Death Eaters rang in his ears, while his heart drummed frantically in his chest._

_He recognised those screams. _

_They had Holly._

_He gritted his teeth, dragged the other along instead, seeking the flimsy cover of the ancient walls, which had once been impregnable— _

_The other clearly had other things in mind. His tone was one of utter disbelief as he was dragged away from the open. _

_They had never run before._

"_Connor, no—we need to help Gramps! Connor, they've got Holly! They've hit Auntie—**What are you doing?**" _

_Harry peered around the wall—nobody had followed them, they were all busy with Gramps and Holly. His heart tore with every heaving breath. How could they abandon them like that?_

_**At all costs.**_

_The other was raising his head to look at the scene developing before their eyes. One word was all that it took to turn his plans to dust. _

"Connor_..." It held a warning, a plea, disbelief at his hesitation—the other was determined to plunge into the fray, he was merely giving him the option to fight or continue running._

_**At all costs.**_

_**Damn you, Gramps. Damn you for doing this to me. **_

_He had sworn he'd protect the other, whatever happened, even if it killed him. He was all right with that. But Holly had not been in the picture, and it was her who was suffering. He took a deep, shaky breath._

_**Oh, bugger it all.**_

_He pointed his wand at the nearest figure, exchanged a glance with the other, who mirrored his movements. What else could he do?_

_**I'm sorry. I can't just sit here and watch you die.**_

"_**Everbero**!" Twin beams shot from twin wands, finding their target even as the tall Death Eater was sent flying by the old wizard, who leapt up and towards Voldemort, his wand raised high over his head—_

His scar began to burn once more, slicing through every nerve ending he possessed, like thousands of tiny, white-hot needles embedding themselves in his head. A confusion of voices reached his ears, almost inaudible amidst the deafening screaming that was his own. He could not make out what they were saying. He opened his eyes, but saw only darkness—

"_Are you ready to give up yet, Angus?" Voldemort called, chuckling in amusement at the sight the once so dreaded wizard offered, on his knees with his wand broken at his side, in the centre of the smouldering ruins that once had been his fortress. "You shall not last forever."_

_The old man replied by sending a rippling wave of power that made everyone in the vicinity crumble to the ground, and even Harry had to take a step back. His amusement died. _

"_Bella, bring in your latest catch."_

_A girl was dragged before him, and the old wizard's eyes widened._

"_No..." he whispered._

"_Surrender, old man," said Harry, pointing his wand at the terrified girl almost leisurely. "**Crucio**."_

Harry struggled, fighting the link—the pain was unbearable. He couldn't see beyond the agony in his scar. Darkness was creeping in on him, around him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was vaguely aware that he was shaking madly—he tried to sit up, but his body had lost all ability to respond to his commands—he curled up instead, his hands cradling his head, felt himself rock back and forth, even as someone pinned him down, calling his name in an increasingly frantic, far-away voice he could barely hear over the shouting in his head.

_He broke the Cruciatus Curse only when the girl had stopped moving. The old wizard had remained immobile, his pale green eyes wrenched shut. He was defeated, and Harry knew it._

_**Victory.**_

_This acceptance, coming from such a hard-headed opponent was odd, and not a little disappointing—he had expected Angus to fight until the end. No matter; he would soon have what he came to collect._

"_I have been searching for you Angus, and you shall give me the key to Harry Pot—"_

"_No!" a teenaged wizard leapt forward, eyes glinting fearlessly at him. "Leave him—"_

"_Get away, you stupid boy!" Gramps mouthed, and he understood. Harry leapt up, bounded to his brother's side, dragged the other down in time to avoid being hit by a spell of some sort, responded with a curse of his own._

_From his spot before the old wizard, Harry smiled coldly._

"_They shall be next." He turned to Bellatrix, who was staring avidly, _hungrily_ at the boys. "Kill them." _

_Bellatrix nodded, a Shredding Curse left her wand—there was a startled shriek—, and almost instantly, one of the boys crumbled to the ground. She raised her wand a second time, a manic grin on her face as she dodged the spell cast furiously by the other. _

"_No, wait—" Harry could feel the energy, if he looked past the fear. Unsettling, eerily familiar, yet almost palpable to him, tangible, crawling beneath his skin. He blinked in recognition, turned to the old wizard again. "Take them alive. I will get to them in a moment. You, McAlpin, have delayed me enough." _

Harry's back arched wildly, he could not endure this—he needed to make it stop. His very essence was being split in two—Voldemort could see it too.

"Hold him down, he's shaking—"

"Poppy!"

"What is wrong with him?"

"I don't know."

"_Angus, take your secrets to the grave. I have found something far better than anything you could hide in that brain of yours." He gestured at the boys. "They are what you were hiding, old man. And I now see why." He laughed, shrill and cruel. "I believe I should thank you."_

_Angus McAlpin replied with a quite rude comment, punctuating it by spitting at Harry's feet._

"_Why thank you," said Harry, pointing his wand deliberately slowly at the wizard. "Avada Kedavra."_

_The beam of ghostly green left the wand, both fast as lightning and too slow, yet unstoppable._

_Angus McAlpin smiled in satisfaction._

_The flash of green light reached its target. Instantly, another, much brighter beam of light illuminated the night sky, blinding all who were present, a rippling wave of power that knocked everyone down, one that was felt even by those miles away._

In Privet Drive, the clock struck midnight.

Angus McAlpin fell to the earth, his expression frozen in a self-satisfied smile, like a wax figure.

Remus Lupin remembered the location of Black Lodge.

Alastor Moody remembered where he had seen the winged horses before.

Mundungus Fletcher remembered that a C. McAlpin had won the Magical All-Britain Steeplechase the previous year, earning him a sack full of Galleons on a horse named Moonshine.

Connor McAlpin convulsed soundlessly, his grip on his brother loosening almost gently as he sank to the ground.

Voldemort gave a high-pitched, wailing scream and fell face forward upon his enemy's body, his wand clattering to the ground as his entire body slackened.

Harry Potter uttered one last scream and slumped to the floor, unseeing eyes glazed over, wide open. His body continued to jerk and shake, while his mind, his being, was split in two, in three—a whirlwind of colours played before his eyes, around him. He was spinning madly, shattered, broken, rent asunder and put together again, a rushing sound in his ears—then...

Nothing.

No feeling. No sound. No pain.

Harry raised his head. He was lying on the floor in the Dursley living room, or was that the courtyard? He could see the electric fireplace Mr. Weasley had destroyed when he came to pick him up for the Quidditch World Cup, right there next to the flaming ruins of the manor house.

"_Harry? _Harry_!" _

"_Gods..."_

"_He's... he's not breathing—"_

He went to his feet, ignoring the urgent voices calling out to him. This here was more important.

He saw a boy, about his age, lying on the dirt, staring at Voldemort—he saw Voldemort lying on a corpse, staring back, even as he, Harry, looked at each in turn from in between.

He could see through their eyes as well as his own. Part of him bristled; how could anyone be in three places at once?

"_Molly, move **aside**!"_

"_Roll him on his back—"_

He inched his long fingers towards his wand. That boy had to die. Harry saw Voldemort shift a little—

The boy's hand sought his wand—Voldemort would kill him. Harry moved to grip the strip of ebony lying close by—

Harry raised his wand of yew. In response, Harry raised his wand. He would not go down without a fight.

Harry looked from one to the other. He needed to stop Voldemort from killing the boy and save himself in the process. Because he was.

He was in three places at once.

He was moving in three bodies at once.

Voldemort opened his mouth to speak, celebrating an anticipated victory. No one could help this one now.

Harry saw his wand of yew rise—it was almost alien in his hand.

Harry Potter understood.

Anger flared. He took action.

"_Avada_—"

Voldemort's hand jerked back, twisting around to point his wand at his face.

_**Go on, you rotten megalomaniac bastard, say it!**_

"Wh—"

**_Say IT! Kedavra, go on!_**

Voldemort's fiery eyes widened, Harry could feel the fear rising in him, engulfing every fibre, gripping him—

_Someone was covering his mouth with theirs, pinching his nose shut and tilting his head back. Air filled his lungs._

"_Harry, **breathe**!"_

"Run. _RUN_!" Harry shouted in the boy's ear at the same time, although no words left his mouth. The boy didn't move, his wand still raised, his other hand resting upon the motionless body of his brother.

"_Come **on**—"_

"_I've got a pulse—"_

"Run! Now! I can't hold him much longer!"

The boy backed off a step, then another—Voldemort was gaining ground, struggling with his own hand as it turned his wand upon him—

The connection broke.

He choked, gasped for breath. A hand was there, warm in the freezing cold. He felt fingers gently cupping his neck, lifting his head, while another hand supported his back into a half-sitting position.

"It's over, Harry." Lupin whispered in his ear. In the background, he heard sobbing. "It's over now."

Harry curled up against Lupin's chest, too weak to move, listening to the trembling words repeated over and over again. He desperately wanted to believe them.

Moments later, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and everything went black.

* * *

"Where are we? I would think I am entitled to know—Oh, I see. Another one of those Auror things, is it?" The woman hurried along the darkened side street, following in the wake of an elderly woman who looked ready to break into a jog at any minute.

"I told you this is Order business..." The old woman tripped, but caught herself with a scowl before her companion could steady her.

"It's all the same to me."

"..._and_ you'll understand when we arrive—we're almost here, by the way." They turned at a corner, crossed another street before the woman spoke again.

"Please slow down." Her voice was firm, and she came to a halt a few paces before a nondescript door in a muggle neighbourhood. "Are you going to tell me who I am going to treat, at least?"

In response, the main door to number four, Privet Drive opened wide.

"Thank you for coming on such a short notice."

Andromeda Tonks' eyes narrowed. This was one person she had not been prepared to see.

"I remember you said these exact words the last time, Lupin." She replied coldly, but nonetheless allowed Lupin to take her potions bag from her and followed him inside. The man could use some rest, and she told him as much. The offhand chuckle and helpless shrug he responded with was reminiscent of other times when they had been in this type of situation, which had once occurred too often to keep track of.

She had never told him that he, James and Sirius had always reacted the same under these circumstances, like three clones in different bodies—it came from spending such a long time together, she supposed.

"It's worse than last time."

"I'll be the judge of that. Where is the mystery patient?"

Lupin led her to the living room, where a shock of untidy black hair stuck out from underneath a blanket. Andromeda Tonks' eyes widened in recognition for a second, before turning to her daughter and glaring at her.

"Is this some sort of joke?" she asked forcefully.

"We at Magical Law Enforcement do not have a sense of humour that we are aware of, Madam."(1) Tonks threw her hands up in defence.

"Either that, or you all have a morbid perception of what is funny." The witch passed a hand over her turquoise robes and approached the sleeping figure. "I'm quite willing to wager on the latter."

Within instants, she had established that Harry Potter looked just like his father when he was at school, that he was not sleeping but a little less than semi-conscious, and that she would need to draw on every ounce of her famed skills to help him.

She rounded in on Remus Lupin, much like she had often done in a past she wished would never again catch up with her.

"Why now?"

"What do you mean, Andie?"

"I think we are too old to use pet names, Lupin." Andromeda's eyes were as cold as her voice. "You know perfectly well what I mean."

"He does not." a voice said from behind her. She turned, and her the coldness in her eyes increased, only surpassed by the icy tone her voice acquired.

"Aha. So _you_ are here as well."

"I only arrived a moment ago. Healer Tonks, my apologies."

"After all these years, that is all you have to say, do you?"

Harry drew a shaking, laboured breath, and instantly Andromeda's eyes were on her patient.

"I'll deal with you later, _headmaster_." She gave Lupin a sideways glare, while her hands were busy taking her patient's pulse. To his credit, her one-time school friend did not recoil. Times had changed, for better or worse, and she was not the only one who had been smacked around one time too many.

"Explain." Apparently it was easier to slip into the actions of a preset protocol either of them had been able to enact in their sleep once, relying on automatic actions rather than consciously changing the pattern.

"He looked fine when he arrived," Remus said lamely. "Well, not this badly injured at least..." In a few, well-measured words, he laid out the most important points of Harry Potter's condition. Which was not really enough to work on, but it had to do.

"So basically, you're telling me that he's been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours, during which he's had several seizure episodes. The last one was so strong that he stopped breathing, and you waited_ this long_ to contact a Healer?" she snapped angrily.

"No, no." Lupin shook his head, too tired to humour her with a stronger reaction. "Poppy Pomfrey has been here for quite a while—she's in the kitchen now, preparing a poultice or other."

Andromeda's glare softened a little. She plunked her bag on the carpet next to Harry, and began rummaging through it, extracting a well-worn strip of leather. The runes set on it were still visible, however. When she reached under the blanket to take hold of Harry's arm, she shivered. The boy was as cold as a corpse.

His voice dropped an octave. "Andie—Andromeda, we are lost here. We don't know—" Lupin's voice began to shake.

There was a rush of movement around her, and an anxious babble broke out.

"It looked like he was improving..."

"Merlin, even Poppy couldn't find anything—"

"Except for the low body temperature."

"You can help him, can't you?"

"I can try," Andromeda replied. She took a steadying breath before she looked at the witches and wizards suddenly crowding the living room, and her face acquired a steely look to it. "I don't know where you came from," she said firmly, "but this is the reason there are waiting lounges in the hospitals. I am not going to perform before an audience."

"But—"

"_Mum_..."

"_Andromeda_..."

"You can stay, Lupin, don't be stupid—now, stop whining, it's not like you haven't been in this situation before." Her eye caught a glimpse of white, and she smiled slightly. "Ah, Poppy, hello. At least someone capable is here." Her smile died as she addressed everyone else once more.

"I presume there is some sort of killer squad guarding him, so I'll allow two of you to stay, over in _that_ corner.—she pointed at the far end of the room— As for the rest of you: scram." She jabbed her thumb at the door over her shoulder and set to work without a second glance at the shocked faces gaping at her.

"You were saying, Lupin?" she muttered absently, adjusting the straps to Harry's limp arm.

"We don't know what's wrong with him," Lupin repeated quietly. "One moment, he was raging at us, the next..." He began to worry his lip, a childhood habit she remembered as reserved for the most dire situations. "Andie, he... for a moment there, I thought..." He trailed off helplessly, sinking down on the floor next to her. He never once looked at her, his gaze locked on the semi-conscious figure on the sofa.

"That's normal for someone with an extended compensation stage," she said matter-of-factly. "You should know better, Remus. Remember James?"

"Extended...?" Lupin had evidently stopped listening at that point. He had always been that way, pinpointing the exact spot where his comprehension ended and an explanation was due.

"Compensation stage. The body tries to keep functioning until it reaches its limit. Harry here was most likely drawing on his reserves. Don't look so surprised, James was just the same."

"I know, but the circumstances are different."

"Hardly any more different than last time, I presume." Andromeda wore now a contemptuous sneer which she flashed at the headmaster, who had the grace to look down at his hands, even if he had not left as instructed.

Even after all these years, she had not lost the trademark haughty expression of all Blacks. Remus doubted she ever would; not even Sirius had been able to rid himself of that trait, although he had used it sparsely at best.

"Let me guess wildly here; his condition has to do with... _this_." She pointed at Harry's forehead.

Lupin looked at her, aghast.

"It was _you_... but..." he stammered, eyes widening at her grim nod.

"Am I correct, _headmaster_?" She demanded aloud.

"Yes," Dumbledore admitted softly, without looking up from his hands. "It appears that young Mr. Potter has a link with Voldemort, which has been giving him trouble for a while."

"It is amazing how you measure time, headmaster." Andromeda brushed the scar with the tips of her fingers, and Harry winced. "I could hardly describe fourteen years as 'a while'. That will be all, Mr. Dumbledore." Her attention returned to Lupin, and she was all business again. "How long has he been like this?"

"He's been in and out of it for hours," Said Lupin promptly, trying, and failing, to bite back a tiny smile at the headmaster's dismissal. "Since sunset."

"I meant _in this state here_, Lupin, don't be daft."

"Half an hour," Lupin replied with an apologetic smile. "We called you as soon as... you know."

"I see." She tapped the armband with her wand and silently watched the runes begin to move around and rearrange themselves.

It took a long time, much longer than Remus recalled, and he was about to ask what was going on when the armband started to glow red—his blood froze.

This, he remembered.

"Impossible." Andromeda's harsh voice broke the silence. She was staring at the blinking and glowing surface, suddenly pale.

"Beg pardon?"

"This is... _impossible_." Andromeda's quiet voice silenced the others effortlessly. "By all rights, he shouldn't even be alive."

* * *

He ran, stumbling over his own feet, his mind numbed by panic, along a dark, dank alleyway. The splashing noise made by another pair of feet, closely following his own, offered only marginal reassurance.

He risked a glance, just to make sure the other still was following, without stopping his race for a moment.

_At least he's still here, right behind me._

He had always been the one to lead, always the one to make the important decisions. People didn't notice, really, thinking they were just identical drops of oil. But today had been fatal, and they weren't safe yet.

Hadn't been since midnight.

_We've lost her again. But she'll be back. She's always back._

He shook his sodden bangs out of his eyes, taking a split second to curse the relentless rain, and then dismissed the discomfort, the stabbing pains in his side and skull, the cold and the weariness, locking them away in the back of his thoughts.

He had to get them both out of here, he knew that much; it was his fault they were stuck in this mess to begin with. If he just had _listened_, this wouldn't have happened…

But why was Inverarray emptier than an ice-cream parlour in winter?

He looked quickly over his shoulder, trying to determine if _they_ were closing in on them yet, flinging out a hand to grab the figure staggering onwards next to him by the collar of his robes to keep him from falling.

_He's **tired**, he shouldn't be running, dammit! Let him pull through this, please – _

"Just a bit further," he breathed, dragging the other down behind an overturned dumpster without so much as a warning, a mere instant before she appeared at the far end of the smelly alleyway.

Like a bloodhound, she seemed to know where he was going even before he knew himself.

_How the hell does she do it every **blasted** time?_

He flattened himself against the wall, his arm helping the other do the same. He saw her eyes glowing in the dark like furious icy-grey beacons. Could she see them in the near-complete darkness?

He wouldn't put it past her.

_Please, let her not see us, please, let her just pass us_ – he thought frantically, not daring to breathe, feeling the warmth of the other against his steadying hand, odd against the surrounding wet coldness of the seemingly never-ending rain.

_Please, please, let her leave – just leave, will you!_

He held his breath, heart beating madly against his throat, certain she'd hear them, and then everything would be lost—

_Can't be heard – not now, she's there, she's still looking –_ He covered the other's mouth before the gasp came. _No… don't. She's still here, please, **please** go away..._

She approached slowly, her footsteps muffled by the amount of rubbish littering the narrow pass, and stopped, a measly few feet away from them. If she took one more step ahead, she would see them, half-crouched and flattening themselves against the dinghy wall, in a futile and rather poor attempt at camouflage.

_Please… _

His wish was granted, for the time being; she looked around for a lingering moment, then turned on her heel and left the alleyway, looking just like a hyena on the hunt.

An angry one.

He desperately wanted to leap up and run away from the alleyway, which was too narrow, too much in the open, too devoid of so much as a halfway decent hiding place to be suitable. He held still for a few more moments, though. He wouldn't take any chances. She'd be expecting him to do just that, and by the murderous look in those eerie eyes, she'd make sure they suffered for the insolence of escaping her clutches. Badly.

However, they couldn't stay long. _They_ might be too young to Apparate, but _she_ certainly wasn't. He let go of a breath he'd been holding, and released the other's mouth, straining his ears for any tell-tale sound. There were others turning the town in and out, of course. She'd called them, hadn't she? He'd heard as she did, he'd known those gunshots for what they truly were. Death Eaters were not ones for stealth, he had learned that much. _And two of them have a hell of an aim_, he mentally added, while he felt the blood flow from somewhere above his hairline and into his eyes.

Slowly, as her enraged footsteps faded around the corner of the alley, he took yet another steadying breath and turned to see the figure leaning next to him against the wall, took a chance to quickly check him over once more. The bleeding in his upper chest hadn't quite stopped –_ how can it, what with all this ruddy water we're sopping wet_ – and he looked much weaker, dammit!

"C'm'ere," he whispered, his eyes meeting the other's, a face identical to his own. The eyes wrenched shut, though, as he cast the Emergency Healing Charm they'd been taught so long ago.

_It's my fault he's hurt so badly_…

He sharply stopped this train of thought. He didn't have the time for useless rambling and guilt trips right now. _She_would be back soon, and so would the rest. _He_ had to get them both out of there, and fast.

He just hoped he would have the time to hate himself later.

If she didn't find them, if only she slipped up _once _more, he just _might_ have a chance in hell. One chance in hell was all they needed. Was it too much to ask for?

Probably it was.

"Ready?" his whisper seemed too loud in his ears, trembling and strained. He blinked away rainwater and blood, trying to reassure the other.

A shaky nod was his response.

_Too weak. **Sod it!** _

_No time_ – He gathered himself up as quickly as he dared without having his knees give way, and hoisted the other up by the armpits, heaving him to unstable feet.

_What did you expect? Five bloody Emergency Healing Charms in a span of a few hours are rather too much for anyone_. But there wasn't time for potion-making at the moment, even if he'd had the ingredients. Or the knowledge.

He hoped, against all hope, there would be time soon. There _had_ to be.

_No time... they're coming again. Gah!_

He adjusted the other's arm around his shoulders and looked warily around, his wand at the ready. He felt the other sway; the Healing Charms usually took a while to kick in, but he couldn't grant him even the small luxury of five minutes' rest.

_No time—get out of here. _

_Now._

"Let's get out of here," he muttered grimly, and began to make his way slowly and cautiously back to the nearest exit of the alley. They advanced in complete silence, catching snatches of the – blissfully distant – yells of their pursuers. Once they had reached the side street, the other had recovered enough to walk on his own.

_Not for long, though. We need to get back. But how?_

_No time_—the yells were coming closer, more urgently than before. Panic threatened to take over again, and he swallowed a lump rising in his throat, which he strongly suspected was his heart.

They stole silently the length of another small row, under the cover of the shadows and parked cars, until they came to the crossing of the main street.

"What now?" the other asked in a strangled voice, gratefully sliding down against what looked like the remains of a muggle family car.

"No idea. What about that way?" he answered, pointing eastwards, where he could just make out the familiar road they usually took to return home.

_Home..._

The other gave a throaty chuckle.

"Too predictable," he grunted dismissively, clutching at his battered ribs. "Why don't we just hide somewhere?"

He didn't answer. He'd heard a scuttling noise nearby, and was presently looking for the source. The other remained silent, taking a deep, steadying breath, listening hard.

He drew his wand, and looked underneath the car they were hiding behind. There, badly concealed by one of the tires, he saw the ghostly glow of a pair of tiny eyes belonging to – his heart resumed its hammering and he nearly dropped his wand – a rat.

With a silver paw.

He felt as if a ghost had just walked through him, backed off with a sudden jerk, aiming his wand under the car and grabbing the other's shoulder with his free hand.

"They're coming." He hissed, whispering a well-aimed Stunning Spell at the animal even as it tried to get away from underneath the car, its silver paw shining like a newly-coined Sickle in the yellowish beam of the streetlamps lining the street. "C'mon."

"Did you hit it?" the other asked uncertainly.

"What do you think?" He replied with a roll of his eyes, pulling the other up as gently as he could, and set out away from danger. The Professor had taught them both well, after all.

"I hate running, you know," the other managed from between clenched teeth while he allowed himself to be dragged along the first block.

He chuckled.

"I know," he answered with something that resembled amusement, his eyes darting left and right, seeking out – and discarding almost instantly – possible options for protection as he ran, feeling them approaching in hot pursuit.

_No, too much in the open... Unless _– He abruptly turned left, into yet another narrow row lined with dumpsters and cluttered with rot. _Unless it's still there._

"Get Wormtail! The fool, he could have waited for us!" he heard a voice screech furiously, amidst the trampling of many feet and several _cracks_ that announced they'd been spotted.

As if he didn't already know that much.

He reached the end of the alleyway, blood pounding in his ears, the other closely behind, as he looked for the mark they had found etched into the brick wall so long ago. They had found the old tunnel years and years earlier.

Gramps had been royally pissed when he found out, and they'd not returned – but it **should **still be there.

_Please, let it be there..._

Gramps had told them the place was warded so strongly, they wouldn't last ten minutes in there. That it was haunted, filled with Acromantulas, hexes, and whatnot.

On balance, he'd gladly take on a legion of ghosts, spiders, and curses instead of having to face **_her_** alone.

His hands brushed the carving in their frantic search – _This is the one!_ – his heart leapt – _they_ were coming closer now, he could hear the anti-Apparation spells being cast.. As if they could Apparate at all, _honestly_ – He tapped the hidden entrance with his wand – _come on, **open up** already!_

The other gasped, making him turn around, his blood freezing.

She was at the far end of the alley now, and leapt towards them with a triumphant yell – almost out of reflex, he cast a Reductor Curse at her feet, heard the satisfactory crunching sound of bone breaking, her cry, not of pain, not yet – but he didn't stop to look; instead, he grabbed the other by the scruff of his neck and shoved him headfirst into the gap that had appeared in the dank wall behind them.

"You idiot boy! What do you think, this shall stop me?" she roared, fury etched in her every word.

He whipped around again, gracing her with a grin, almost in spite of the situation.

They were most certainly out of her reach – there was no way the other Death Eaters could catch up with them now. Not while their very own anti-Apparition spells were in place, at any rate. He quickly cast an Impediment Jinx around himself, following the other into the gap at the same time, and casting the closing spell while he slid down a slimy stone chute lit only by the dim glow of the streetlamps outside. He only breathed again when the darkness was complete.

They were safe... for the time being.

* * *

He blinked slowly, and wondered briefly how high he had been flying when that Bludger hit him on the head. His head hurt fit to burst, and there were many little points of light swimming before his eyes.

Someone was sitting on the back of the sofa he was lying on. He thought he ought to recognise the dark grey robes, the eyes.

He _hadn't_ fallen off a broomstick, had he?

As it all came trickling back into his head, Harry noticed the figure was looking at him, playing idly with what looked like a pair of polished round stones, one red and one blue. Dudley had once had two such balls, Harry remembered, to practice patience, or coordination, or something... not that they'd lasted long; Dudley had thrown them at passing cars the same day he'd received them.

The figure caught his eye and winked at him.

Harry's breath caught softly in recognition.

"He's completely unresponsive—" he heard Lupin mutter shakily, speaking to someone outside Harry's field of vision.

"Right, Lupin. Since when did you become a Healing expert?" The wizard rolled his eyes and winked at Harry, who was following his every movement. "Completely unresponsive my big, hairy..."

"_Oy_..." a disembodied voice admonished. It sounded rather bored, as if it had been doing just that for hours. Harry couldn't place whom it belonged to, but then, his brain seemed to have oozed out of his scar, to judge by the sluggishness of his thoughts.

"... _Paw_." The wizard finished with annoyance. "I meant to say 'paw', Mr. Etiquette-Policeman. Besides, it's not like he hasn't heard worse before." He scoffed when the strange voice muttered something like, "Yeah, I bet you were responsible for those," and leaned forward.

"Harry, there is little time."

Harry blinked, his eyes never leaving his visitor's. There was no mistaking that look or that voice—it was him.

"Mate, I've tried to do that for years. Hasn't worked _once_." Harry's eyes went to one side, then the other, but he could not see anyone apart from Sirius. Sirius could, apparently, because he gave the empty space to his right a lopsided grin.

"Maybe, but _you_ are not _me_," he said wryly.

"Thank the heavens for small blessings."

Sirius' grin faded to be replaced by a look of annoyance.

"One more _heaven_ joke and I'll—"

"_Kill_ me? Pshaw, been there, done that..."

"Can't remember most of it," Sirius agreed with the invisible speaker, all traces of annoyance gone.

"The matter at hand, if you would be so kind..."

Instead of arguing back, Sirius promptly leaned forward again, ducking as if trying to squeeze his image under Harry's half-closed eyelids.

"I'm here, Harry. Can you see me?"

"Sirius?" Harry whispered, too weak to raise his head. The figure nodded gravely. How or why his godfather had appeared there when he was supposed to be dead, escaped him just then. He did not stop to think, either—he did not want him to disappear again.

"Wh-where have you been?" Harry almost mouthed the words, choked by a wave of nausea that did, mercifully, not turn into a retch.

"Wherever you go, I'm always there. Godfather's prerogative and all." He regarded Harry thoughtfully, almost sadly. "You just don't see me. Not unless... well." He gestured at Harry's body. "Let's just say there are other ways."

"He's hallucinating," said Lupin, giving his shoulders a little shake. "Harry?"

Sirius scowled at the frightened man over Harry's head.

"You're not hallucinating, okay?" he said firmly, looking straight into Harry's eyes with an intensity that was scary. Harry swallowed. "_He_—here he nodded at Lupin—is _clearly_ overreacting." (2)

"Mmmkay," Harry slurred. His eyelids were heavy, and every movement he made was weak and twitchy. Or maybe his arms had been filled with lead?

"Hey, look who's here," the strange voice said abruptly.

"Cousin, it's been a while," Sirius said at once, and Harry could have sworn he was grinning.

_Just a second. Cousin? COUSIN?_

Harry's eyes snapped open suddenly.

He made out a face leaning over his own, saw grey eyes, long black hair, high cheekbones—he fumbled with his covers, even as his heart began to hammer in his chest.

He knew that face.

_Wand—where...?_

Heart racing in earnest, he gritted his teeth. _WAND! NOW!_

She had less than a second to notice what was going on—all anyone saw was Harry stirring feebly as Andromeda tried to bring the fever down without disturbing any other treatments that were in place.

His hand shot out, and a wand flew into it from across the room, nearly skewering one of the wizards present as it whizzed past.

"_You_—" A snarl was all the warning anyone received, guttural and as raw as the sudden intensity of Harry's glare.

Whilst seconds before Harry had been roughly as strong as an overfed Flobberworm, the electric jolt that had woken him made him sit bolt upright, his left hand closing around the witch's neck while his right jabbed the wand against her head.

"_Harry_, _no_!" At least three figures came into view at the edges of Harry's vision, but he paid them no heed.

"You killed him—" he growled, his left fingers twitching slightly as he considered whether it would be more satisfactory to curse her or throttle her with his bare hands.

Which was the precise thought that saved her life.

"Although that is a very fine display of wandless magic, Mr. Potter, I would rather keep my head."

Harry blinked, in an effort to focus his eyesight. The witch continued to speak, and it was her voice that made Harry freeze in shock.

"...I need it, you see. It is not my intention to join the Headless Hunt right now—I doubt they take in female members anyway." The witch was looking straight at him, and her voice was calm, even slightly amused. She did not seem at all ruffled by his reaction.

He might know that face, but the voice was completely different from what he remembered. It was musical, rich, and quite unlike Lestrange's raspy screech.

For a few long moments, nobody moved. Harry continued to train his wand steadily at the witch's head, but his expression faded from rage to confusion with every heartbeat.

His vision was focusing slowly, and it yielded a picture that was quite different from the vivid memory of Bellatrix Lestrange he had stored in his mind's eye. That, along with a boyish snigger that _had_ to be Sirius', was what made him decide he had just made a mistake. He realised he'd never before heard such a sound from his godfather before—it was strangely fitting, though.

"Who... who are you?" he breathed, noticing only now that Lupin's face was coming into focus next to hers.

"Put that away, if you please. I really do need my head, kid."

"This is Healer Tonks, Harry." Lupin cut in gently, and Harry slowly slackened his grip. The witch did not move, however. "She is not going to hurt you."

"She's my mum," Tonks added hurriedly.

"She's my cousin," said Sirius, chuckling. "My _other_ cousin, that is—remember?"

"Thank you, Nymphadora."

"Don't call me that, mum." Tonks scowled, and Lupin cracked a smile.

That did it.

"Are you... Andromeda Black?" Harry managed after a moment, letting his arms fall at his sides. The wand clattered to the floor.

"I used to be," she replied simply, straightening up as if it were completely normal to be threatened at wandpoint by a patient upon waking.

"Oh." Harry fell back against the sofa, feeling shivery and drained once more. "Sorry."

"It's not the first time I've elicited such a reaction," Andromeda said primly.

"I _said_ I was sorry, Andie!" Sirius muttered from nearby. Harry's eyes wandered to the back of the sofa, where he could see Sirius half-lying on his side, his head resting on his propped-up elbow. He was _certain_ he had heard a different voice echoing Sirius' every word, but he could still not see the speaker.

"There's nothing to be sorry about."

"Oh... okay then," Sirius shrugged, turning to regard Harry for a moment. "Don't hex her, Harry," he advised, and Harry had the distinct feeling he ought to take that advice to heart.

"I won't...hex..." Harry managed thickly. His eyelids were drooping once more, and he fought it.

"Why thank you, Potter." Andromeda waved her wand, and Harry found himself propped up by thick pillows. "Now, before you pass out again, I need you to answer some questions."

"After all those years, she still uses the same words every time."

Harry nodded weakly, too drained to make heads or tails out of what was happening, or indeed to do anything other than comply.

* * *

At least, they had managed to get away from them.

Groping in the dark for the other, he had dragged himself frantically to his side, made sure he was still breathing – and then he had waited.

He had waited, each passing minute an excruciating eternity, his heart feeling like it would jump straight out of his throat if it hammered any harder than it already did, not daring to move, much less cast a lighting spell. He had lain there, at the foot of the chute, feeling the muck and mud seeping through the torn fabric of his cloak and into his equally torn robes, too frightened to do much else than stare, wild-eyed, at the gaping darkness where he knew the entrance to be.

They hadn't come.

Very slowly, he had snapped out of his shock. Stood on trembling legs and cast a lighting charm. The warm light issuing from his wand helped calm him somewhat, after it dazzled him into momentary blindness. He let out a rather shivery breath; it was certainly much colder down here than outside.

He looked at the other, lying sprawled face-down on the ground next to him; His wet hair hung limply over his now blankly staring eyes, his breaths came in ragged gasps, and he was trembling from head to foot.

He ran a numb hand through his own sodden hair and crouched next to the other, in order to examine him more closely. He looked worn to the limit, and _this_ close to giving up.

He, however, hadn't. He couldn't. Not now, not when a tiny glimmer of hope was breaching the fog that had swallowed them – he checked his lunar watch, more out of habit than need – eight hours ago. He stared at the little revolving planets, which continued their oh-so-predictable movements, momentarily stunned.

Eight hours.

Eight hours earlier, they had been cleaning out stable seven, as punishment for fooling around with the granians.

It had seemed so much longer to him.

He cast a levitating charm with the other's own wand, while twiddling the intensity of the Lumos spell he was casting with his own, and set out down the mysterious passageway his Gramps had forbidden them to enter. He wished he had disobeyed him back then; at least he would know what he was up against now. And Gramps would have had the chance to tell him off for it, too. Maybe even come to the rescue.

He could do neither now, his Gramps. Because Gramps was dead. And it was his fault, because he hadn't listened to the wise old codger.

_Sorry, Gramps. I guess tonight I shall disobey every single order you gave me during my entire blasted life_, he thought grimly. The more urgent danger had apparently passed, and his mind grabbed the chance to take him down the dumps while he was busy trying to maintain his lighting spell as bright as possible without dropping the other, who floated silently in his wake.

The passage was damp and muddy, especially around the stone chute, where he quickly found himself sinking knee deep in muck; but as it wound this way and that, he found that, even if he advanced easily enough, the mud did not decrease, nor did the stuffy air become any fresher. Was the whole thing caved in?

He plodded onwards nevertheless. His squelching, stumbling steps were the only sound to be heard save for his own and the other's irregular breathing, muffled by layers of age-old goop and slime that clung to the walls and dripped from the too-high ceiling. The beam of his wand revealed roughly-hewn black stones forming the walls, lined every few feet by unlit torches that crumbled at his slightest touch.

He walked onwards, surprised at the lack of monsters, wards and hexes his Gramps had warned them about, and which had scared them into a very reluctant obedience.

_Well, it **did** happen years ago_, he remembered, wondering absently if he'd truly been so naïve at age eight. _This place doesn't even **feel** haunted or anything._

After walking for what seemed a mile, he felt goosebumps rising on his arms and neck. Actually, he realised, his entire body was tingling, as if he'd been pushed into a Warming Cloud.

_These are the wards he told us about..._

He gulped, having the sense to gently deposit the other on the ground before advancing a few steps on his own. The tingling increased, rendering the air thick to breathe. He swallowed again, and began to try and identify the wards. No sooner had he thought of one of the three ward-detection spells he could pull off, the ward, through which he had previously been unable to pass, _opened_. He blinked in disbelief, lifting his hand before him, feeling the air. It was open for them to pass, even though he hadn't requested it. Nowhere had he read of such a thing to happen.

Going against every principle the Professor and Gramps had hammered into his head for years, he edged closer, calling, "Hello? Is there anybody there?" This, incidentally, was the first item of the list of _Don'ts_ he had memorised at the Professor's bidding.

The only answer he received was a further opening of the wards. Behind him, he heard the dull thumping sound of something rather heavy hitting stone. Apparently the Death Eaters were trying to break into the passageway.

_She really doesn't give up, does she?_ he thought, feeling his pulse begin to race once more and his hopes begin to crumble.

Making up his mind in a split second, he retraced his steps, granted himself a couple of deep steadying breaths that left him slightly dizzy, and returned to the spot where the wards had opened at a run, the other's limp form in tow.

The wards opened again and he crossed them, feeling the tingling warmth probing his every fibre for no less than twelve paces, before he stood in a dimly lit, dust-free, amazingly dry and _warm_ hallway. He gasped audibly. The place was positively welcoming!

He looked over his shoulder, and his eyebrows shot up at the sight that met his eyes. An intense golden glow was stretched, wall-like, across the part of the tunnel he had just covered.

He had never before been able to see a ward.

The Professor could see wards, of course, and he had told them once of the colour of the different types of wards. The golden ones were supposedly the strongest, hardest to set – and therefore, the hardest to break – of all barriers known to wizardkind, and only very powerful and gifted wizards could pull them off. These types of wards were also protective, and could be tuned to recognise certain people, while blocking the entrance to others. Sensitive wards, as it were.

_But sensitive to what?_

He gawped openly at the warm glow emanating from the wards on this side of the tunnel for a moment, before he turned and continued his exploration of the passageway before him. It seemed to be very long, but he didn't get to find out where the exit was – after a few turns, he found a door.

Opening it, he found it led to a side chamber, in which he could see a roaring fire spring to life, casting a dancing light on a room empty except for a low table and a _bed_.

Straining his ears for the sounds of Death Eaters coming their way, he entered the chamber, remembering his training for once and checking the whole place for all sorts of trapping hexes, jinxes and curses before gently placing the other on the bed.

The other groaned, still unconscious, but he felt him relax slightly as his head touched the soft pillow.

The Death Eaters were still pounding away at the entrance. He wondered briefly how he could still hear them; he had, after all, covered some two miles in the winding passageway already.

_Maybe Sound Enhancing Charms. Whoever set this up was really thorough..._

Leaving the other on the bed, he quickly cast a few drying and warming charms on him, before he investigated the room more thoroughly. The low table was speckless, as were the rest of the items in there. A copper basin had been placed on a shelf right by the doorway he had just crossed, amongst a rather interesting collection of healing potions – most of which had either dried out or had long lost their properties, though – a box filled with bandages and the like, and a scroll bearing a most unusual crest that drew his attention at once.

He reached out for the scroll first. Upon opening it, his eyes widened so much he felt they might fall out of his sockets. He swallowed again, comprehension dawning, mingled with disbelief. In the background, the Death Eaters continued their relentless hammering.

_She's really stubborn. And she has no idea how to get in here._

He closed his eyes, not knowing whether to feel relieved, or angered, or betrayed all over again. The sheaf of parchment still in his shaking hand, he sank to the floor, reread the scroll.

_"April 17, 1980_

_Mr. Prongs, _

_The wards have been set on escape route three. I think it's quite safe to say that you and your favourite flower can visit the village unhindered now. It took longer than expected, because, as you can probably guess, I had to tweak the wards to recognise only those who were safe to come and visit, and I am sorry to be so very selfish, but I'd rather like to carry on using this passage in the future as well, without allowing the ever so faithful arse-wipes of Him-Whose-Name-Is-Shorter-To-Spell-Than-This-Grout to enter. Needless to say, owing to the fact that my entire family tree had to be banned from so much as seeing the sodding entrance, it has become rather late—or early, whichever way you look at it – and I shan't be returning home today. _

_I'll be away doing some chores tomorrow as well, you know which (just cast a Silencing Charm or whatever on the locator clock if it drives you up the wall), and I hope that Percival finds both of you a) alive and b) as pregnant as ever. Take good care of the beauty; It's **my** godchild you're carrying around in there, after all._

_Give Mrs. Prongs a kiss on her beach-ball belly from me._

_Yours truly,_

_**Mr. Padfoot**_

_P.S. Messrs. Moony and Wormtail send their regards. A little late, I know, but I've been rather busy. We missed you this last Full Moon, and sincerely hope your broken antlers will have fully healed for the next one._

_P.P.S. Play the baby The Song, so it won't forget me._

_P.P.P.S. Before I forget Prongs, I have gotten hold of a rather unusual and interesting item that should be able to protect the baby once it's born. And yes, I still think it's going to be a boy._ _Those fifty Galleons shall be mine, I am so sure of it that I am tempted to cash them straight away_.

He swallowed, burying his head in his hands for a few short moments, still torn between relief at their now established safety, anger at his Gramps for knowing about this all along, and utter despair and misery at the circumstances under which he'd found this out.

_Stop it. You're not **nearly** through this, and it's not like you have time for stupid trips down memory lane right now,_ he chided himself, rising to his feet and pocketing the scroll. Gramps was dead, it was his fault, and here he was, angry at him again already.

_I **really** don't have time for this_, he decided, and turned to the attention of the other's wounds, without bothering to so much as shrug off his drenched and muddy cloak, and yet unable to stop the few bitter tears trickling down his cheek and dripping off the tip of his nose as he worked feverishly.

* * *

Footnotes: (1) From MIB, blatantly copied.

(2) Uh, Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring. I only noticed it in the re-read, though.

TBC.

Review pleasethanks! begs


	16. The State of Things

**Disclaimer**: I enjoy writing disclaimers, and this one had it coming for ages, as the most faithful of you readers must know full well. None of this you recognise from JKR's works belongs to me, sadly. The original characters, settings, and storyline are mine, and I swear upon crossed heart that I'm not copying off any other fics or anything else. Which means roughly that, if someone recognises anything that may have come up in another fic or book, the similarities are purely coincidental and by no means created on purpose. That said, all I can add is that I'M SORRY EVERYONE I'M A TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE AUTHOR WHO LET REAL LIFE INTERFERE WITH MY FIC AND THERE'S NO VALID EXCUSE WHATSOEVER I COULD GIVE YOU ALL AND THIS IS UNFORGIVABLE EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT I HAVEN'T REALLY STOPPED WRITING FOR ALL THIS TIME, AND HBP WAS LESS WHAT I EXPECTED AND...and I reckon I should stop shouting at you all.

bows deeply Once again, my most heartfelt of apologies, I hope that this chapter lives up to your expectations, it's been written at least six times over, and they were all utter pure rubbish, but version 7.0 is the one that comes closest to something I like, so I decided to post it up.

**DEDICATIONS**: This one has also grown over the months. To everyone who poked at some point for updates, everyone actually reading this chapter, to Japonica, for being such a friend even if I never made it to her town in the UK, to Mr. John Apple, hope you got better! MJ, keep up the uni life, Galactic Horizon, many hugs, to Jan AQ who helped me get over writer's block, and last but not least, to Shayde who helped me with a very Sirius issue and who got her brain fried about this story too many times to count, and who is actually reading it now.

**WARNINGS**: HBP (aka Harry Potter book 6) Spoilers galore. If you haven't read the book, I can't really blame you, you won't notice major spoilers anyhow. If you have, then no worries, you'll recognise a few elements from canon manual vol. 6.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen – The State of Things**

"He was hit by a _Killing Curse_!"

"He deflected it," said Dumbledore at once, hands closed around a glass of Firewhiskey.

"Oh, and now _you_ fancy yourself the leading expert on how that curse works?" Andromeda's voice carried, clear and biting, across the sitting room in the Dursley household.

"Harry is a unique case," she went on angrily, "he's the only one who has _ever_ survived it, and you think that is enough to declare it as fact? If you think that's what happened without further proof, you are stupider than I thought."

"We are only—"

"You are _speculating_, headmaster. You have been doing so for years, and somewhere along the way, your assumptions, which lack the customary proof to back them up, I might add, became cold, hard fact?" Flashing, icy grey eyes met with dull blue, untwinkling for once. Dumbledore looked old and bent, but he did not avert his eyes.

"Andromeda, I—" He did not get to finish.

"Your mistakes have cost too many lives already, Dumbledore. I don't know what your grand design for our future is— whatever it is, it can't be good, in my experience at least— but just open your eyes! This kid is not merely _unwell_. Something happened to him that has my diagnostics running haywire, and my word— I shall be fully informed, and if I have to force-feed you Veritaserum." She crossed her arms over her chest, mouth a thin line, jaw set, her glare scorching through narrowed eyes.

Remus Lupin found himself recognising the same – thankfully rarely seen – signs that had been a warning, in a happier past, to run as far as possible from Sirius and make for the nearest shelter.

For a fleeting moment, he felt grateful for not being the focus of the Black Anger, but then he swallowed back the pang of nostalgia that told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would not have the need to run far and away from his friend's wrath ever again. He gave himself a shake. They had other things to concentrate on at the moment.

There was no time for the dead when the living were in danger.

Now _Andromeda_, on the other hand, was entirely too close to him, Remus remembered suddenly. She had always been less explosive, to be sure, but no less dangerous. The heavy tension in the air was proof enough of that.

Dumbledore seemed to be thinking along the same lines, and the older Order members present all raised silent thanks to the heavens when he began to speak.

Five minutes later, Andromeda Tonks still failed to look appeased at all.

"He was hit by a purple curse." She did not bother to hide her scepticism.

"Well, it was _purplish_..." Dumbledore specified, uncharacteristically timid. Then again, anyone would be humbled by Andromeda's formidable temper.

The Healer hummed, considering this new piece of information that only made the puzzle that was Harry Potter more complex. "Maybe the Multiple Slashing Curse?" Her tone, everyone present noted, was no longer angry, but thoughtful.

"That curse hasn't been seen since..." Mad-Eye threw in, trailing off with a growl.

"So? It _is_ possible, but there is not a single mark on him..." Andromeda mumbled. "If he doesn't wake up soon, we won't be able to know for certain."

All eyes wandered to the unconscious boy on the sofa.

"What we _do_ know is that he took a series of potions in that tent, but we have no idea as to which ones he took, is that correct?" Mad-Eye growled from his assigned corner.

"Nor the doses, order, and number of intakes." Andromeda sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose tiredly. "Lupin, you're supposed to be good at this, help me out here."

Remus' voice caught in his throat for a split second at the sudden address, and he shook his head. "I'm not good at potions," he said apologetically. "Never was."

"But if he's anything like James and..." she closed her eyes briefly. "You know how they were. They'd just take something to get themselves up and going again and carry on. You should have seen how much trouble they gave me. We never knew what we were faced with every time they were carted to St. Mungo's. All symptoms, masked at best, whenever they got their hands on a healing potion or other..."

Remus smiled tightly.

"Let's think for a bit," Andromeda tapped her chin in a businesslike manner. "This is Harry Potter we're talking about. He was hit by a curse that has Rasmus Thanatovich written all over it, so he used a bunch of potions to heal himself, and these in turn were provided by _none other _than Sirius..."

"Harry has no idea of the use of most healing potions, so he might have gone for a general effect..." Remus ventured, receiving a nod in response.

"Pain numbing potions, then. What else?"

"Maybe a blood-clotting potion, to stem the bleeding?"

"Good thinking. Perhaps I should add Scarring Solution to the list?"

"No-one in their right minds would use _that_," Remus said at once.

"But _he_ might have."

"Dudley," Remus said suddenly, clapping a hand to his forehead.

"What's a dudley?" Andromeda asked at once, frowning. That potion wasn't on her mental list at all.

"The cousin, he might know." Five pairs of eyes turned to rest on the youngest Dursley, who was trying, quite ineffectually, to vanish into thin air from his position on the largest sofa.

"Meepsqueakgibber," Dudley managed, cowering from the weirdoes approaching him. The black-haired woman eyed him critically for a moment.

"I need a word with you, kid."

* * *

"I told you, Lupin. This has the classic Potter signature on it. Look at this list, for crying out loud. Blood-clotting Bevvy, Alertness Ale, SkeleFix, Ache-Away, Gunmore's Gash Gelatin... that's not even in the market anymore. _PepperUp_ _Potion_, for goodness sakes! And that ball of fat said the mixture he made tasted like _grapes_! Is he suicidal or what?" Andromeda sounded completely at a loss what to make of it.

"Either that, or really inventive—er, daring." Remus hurried up the stairs, levitating Harry in front of him to his bedroom.

Healer Tonks gave a disbelieving snort.

"Try ignorant." She followed him into the small chamber, where she waited at the doorstep while Remus placed Harry on his bed. "And there's that killing curse to add to the mix, not to mention the flashes or visions or whatever he's been having. Those could be the reason for his collapse."

"Well, if he did not rest..."

"We'll assume he took something to stay awake, the blob said he didn't see him sleep much." She waved her wand a few times, and an armchair appeared out of thin air. "Stress, exhaustion, magical drain." Andromeda said softly. She shook her head, bending over her patient. "He doesn't go for a half-arsed job, does he?"

Lupin shook his head ruefully, sinking into the armchair. His eyes were fixed on Harry's pale, still unconscious form.

"Never once." He buried his face in his hands, muffling his next words. "Whatever are we going to do?"

"Some package Sirius left you, eh?" Andromeda asked, making Harry comfortable in the rickety bed.

Remus looked up, aghast.

"I... I doubt he would have wanted _me_ to..." He said, shaking his head.

"Remus, listen to me. This boy needs you, and he needs you now."

"But I'm hardly qualified to—" Andromeda's laugh made him stop short. It was a rich, contagious sound, yet not out of place despite the darkness of the moment.

"Don't be silly. We all thought Lily and James were _completely_ out of their minds when they chose none other than Sirius to be Harry's protector, and _he_ turned out to be quite a decent choice, if I remember correctly. Despite him being, well... _him_." She paused for a moment to rummage in her bag. "There is no such thing as being qualified to support anyone, you ought to know better than me." Upon seeing her old friend's expression of disbelief, she muttered something about eleven-year-olds and werewolves living together under her breath.

Remus frowned.

"I _heard_ that."

"That was the general idea," she replied primly. "No, hear me out. You don't have to play daddy here, from all I've heard, that's the last thing he'd want," she added, gesturing at Harry. "But there's the matter of what he _needs_, and he needs protection."

Remus, however, had a different view on the matter.

"Everyone else is—" he started, but once more he was interrupted.

"He needs support, care and someone he can trust, not just some paranoid, arse-about-head Death Eater killing squad that doesn't seem able to guard a concussed pixie without bollixing things up."

Remus did his best to ignore how much alike Sirius and Andromeda had been. He had, of course, heard quite similar reasonings before, and he tried the same path he had tried with Sirius back then.

"But Dumbledore—" Not that it had worked then, and it certainly would not yield any results now, to judge by her forceful reply.

"_Dumbledore_ was your excuse fourteen years ago. It was my excuse as well. Will you leave him stranded again?"

"Andie..." Now Remus' tone was pleading.

"They say that every boy needs a mentor to aid him in his life. This man _is not it_."

"I _can't_... I'm a were—" he protested, receiving a headshake in response.

"I know full well what you are, and it hasn't had any importance before, not to the people who matter. Why should it stop you now?"

Remus did not reply at once. He looked out the window onto the dark street below, swallowing dryly a few times, the soft ruffling noises of Andromeda transfiguring the bed into something more fitting for her work in his ears.

"I could never replace Sirius, Andie." His voice was a mere whisper, full of emotion that was not lost on his companion.

"I'm not asking you to. Nobody could _ever_ replace Sirius, or James, or Lily. But you'll have to try, in some aspects, before _he_ does a Sirius on _you_."

"What do you mean?" Remus turned around to face her. "You think he'd...? No, Harry would never—"

"Run away? Probably not. But he, like Sirius, could force you out of his life, you and everyone else he knows."

Remus felt his mouth run dry.

"How do you know _that_?"

"I was his cousin and I'm a mother as well, you know? Not just the 'healer from hell'." Andromeda smiled wryly. "And, although she might not act the part at times, Nymphadora is no longer a teenager."

"But Molly is always..."

"Don't walk away on him. Not again. That's all I'm saying." She turned to Harry once more, indicating the discussion was over. "Now hand me the potions and let's see if we can get him out of this mess."

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the smell.

It was fresh and flowery, a tad too strong, as was usual with Aunt Petunia's cleaning agents. But there was a rather pungent undertone of antiseptic and healing potions in the air that reminded him of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.

The second thing he noticed, as he slowly moved his head to a side, was the softness of the pillow it was resting on. And how heavy his head felt, in comparison to the relative weightless numbness of the rest of him.

"Finally," a voice said from somewhere to his left. "I thought you'd sleep forever."

Harry turned his head towards the voice and blinked blearily. All he could see in the darkness was the wall of his bedroom, against which the bed stood. He raised a hand to his face to rub his dry eyes and immediately regretted it; every one of his nerve endings seemed to have been polished with sandpaper.

What had happened now?

He made a low, indistinct noise in the back of his throat, something between a groan and the sound a wounded mooncalf would make. The intended meaning was not lost on his visitor, however, who smiled slightly upon making eye contact.

"Hello," he said.

Harry's breath caught in his chest for a moment, and if he had had the energy, he would likely have gaped.

"Andie couldn't heal you without cancelling the effects of all the potions you took and the salves you used," Sirius explained gently. He was perched at the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall, one elbow resting on one knee and his other foot dangling off the edge of the bed, while he played with a pair of red and blue stone spheres and regarded Harry with concern underlining his every feature, even though he was smiling. "She was really scared, let me tell you. The only time I ever saw her looking like that, James had—"

"B... but I feel..." Harry interrupted weakly, with a feeble and very ineffective attempt to raise his head that made him bite back a yelp. Everything was fuzzy and muddled; his eyes were not cooperating, and his head felt like Dudley had sat on it. Or used it for boxing training. And when he moved... Merlin's _balls_—it was to Harry as if he had been in the middle of an Erumpent stampede. Or a DA target practice. "..._fine_..." he finished his protest in little more than a feeble whisper.

"Harry, _always_ let Dr. Feelgood do her job. She's as good as they come." Sirius advised gently, eliciting a snort from Harry, immediately followed by a sharp intake of breath and a shaky "_Aah_."

"What happened?" Harry tried again after a few moments, once the stinging jabs of pain in his chest subsided. "I... I _felt_ fine..."

"_Before_ you passed out, I presume," Sirius replied, pointing at something in the region of Harry's chest.

Upon lifting his right arm and head, Harry saw a leather band had been strapped to his other forearm. It was constantly flashing odd-looking, runelike symbols in different colours; red, hues of orange, blue, yellow. He slumped against his pillow, feeling the odd numbness and detachment washing over him again, and let his eyes drift closed.

"What's...?" he half-mouthed, cutting a grimace at the bitter, foul taste in his mouth, which he correctly recognised as bile.

"Andie's Monitor Band of Doom," Sirius replied at once, leaning forward to examine it. "I can't believe she still has it."

"Whatsits...?" Harry enquired eloquently. Sirius got the message, however.

"It helps keep you alive," he said after a moment. "At least, that's what I remember it does. Flashes a different colour depending on how you're doing, too." He paused again. "Reds and oranges are not good but blues are good, if my memory doesn't fail me."

Harry let this new piece of information wash over him. He was not in the mood to question Sirius' presence, or give in to that subtle nagging in the back of his head that told him there was something he desperately needed to tell his godfather, or to that not-so-subtle churning in his innards that was trying to remind him of another, much more pressing, ever so confusing subject he did not want to know a thing about.

He just wanted to lie there in his warm bed forever, listening to Sirius speaking; having him there was reassuring, calming.

"You were dying, Harry," Sirius murmured softly. "Scared everyone half to death."

_Then again, maybe not._

Harry felt he was pretty bashed up, but not as if he were _dying_. Sirius was clearly exaggerating.

"...Wasn't." He argued back. Tried to, at any rate.

"You were," said Sirius calmly.

"'S not..." A part of him believed he would get his point across much better if his words didn't come out so slurred.

"Were too." The reply was punctuated with a chuckle.

"No..." Harry cracked an eye open and tried to glare at Sirius. Needless to say, all he managed was a rather pitiful, bleary squint.

"Yes, you _were_," Sirius insisted, pointing at the bright red glow on the armband. "You still are."

"Why...why are we...?" Harry slurred, furrowing his brow.

"...Having this argument?" Sirius finished for him. "I don't know," he added, running a hand through his hair with a sad smile. "Force of habit?" he offered, and Harry had to resist the urge to laugh; it hurt.

A muffled noise came from Harry's right side, and he stiffened at once.

"Did you hear...?" Harry craned his head towards the noise.

Sirius merely nodded, his expression suddenly much more sombre. He gestured at the figure by Harry's bedside, who was sleeping in an armchair in a quite cramped and uncomfortable-looking position. Upon noticing Harry still had trouble making out shapes and was beginning to shift uncomfortably, he clarified.

"Remus."

"...Oh." Harry relaxed at once.

"He looks worse than ever." Sirius' statement hung in the air, and it brought a guilty writhing of Harry's insides with it which the latter did not want to dissect at the moment. He felt the pressing need to apologise for... _something_. Something important.

"'S my fault..." Harry slurred against his pillow. His skull was throbbing hotly, and, although his response came automatically, Harry had the distinct feeling it was true.

"No." Sirius heaved a great sigh that was much more reminiscent of the Sirius Harry remembered. "No, it's not your fault." Sirius leaned forward to peer at his old friend, but Lupin merely sniffed and slept on.

"B—"

"Harry, drop it." Sirius' tone was gentle, but held no space for arguments. "Take care of him, all right? He needs you."

"I will." Harry's eyelids drooped, and he let them.

"You ought to get some sleep," Sirius said quietly after a few long moments.

"Stay..." Harry whispered, wincing when he shifted his position a little.

"Woof."

Harry cracked a tiny smile.

"Not funny," he mumbled sleepily.

"Then why are you laughing?"

"I'm not..."

"Are too."

"...'M not..."

With these words, Harry drifted off to sleep, his godfather's chuckles in his ears.

When Harry woke again, he thought he saw a large black dog curled up at the foot of his bed, but when he blinked, it was gone.

Had it been a dream? Mere wishful thinking on his part?

He had no answer to these questions; part of him, that insidious bit of consciousness he fought so hard to ignore and which was gaining ground despite his efforts, which always reared its ugly head with the nastiest of truths, well, for once that part did not want to know the answers to these questions either.

Harry found he was perfectly fine with that.

* * *

_0600hrs, July 24_ his watch flashed at him.

He leaned against the vault-like wall of the chamber, closing his stinging eyes for a moment. His watch most helpfully informed him it was time for breakfast and feeding the horses, and that he desperately needed a shower – "_You **reek**_," it announced in a flashing script.

Instead of doing any of the things he would have done any other day, Connor McAlpin slid slowly to the floor. His eyelids felt like lead. So did his arms, and for that matter, his legs as well.

_That's the problem with feeling safe,_ he mused, throwing his head back against the wall and resting his arms on his knees, which he held pressed close to his chest. _Once you know you're a **tad** safe, your body catches up with you, and makes you feel **everything** again, all at once. This is bloody annoying, really, not to mention quite useless, as you'll tire faster if you have to make a break for it again_.

He turned his throbbing head stiffly towards the bed, where the other was finally getting some well-deserved rest underneath the – now very much clean and dry – cloaks he had used as blankets, and suppressed a groan.

Chris was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. Connor, on the other hand, had no such luck. He was stiff and sore, tired enough to sleep for a week without waking, and yet he had not managed to bat an eyelid all night. He smiled grimly at the sight of his brother, yet not without a small measure of satisfaction; he had managed to clean the wounds and stop the bleeding on Chris' chest _almost_ expertly. There would be a scar, to be sure, but the other wasn't dying anymore, was he?

_Nope, that is one thing he's not..._

He gave a half-shrug. Maybe someone would be able to erase it or something, when—or rather, **_if_**—he managed to get them both out of this mess alive. London was over 600 miles south still.

His heart sank. How could he pull that off? How could _anyone_, especially under these conditions?

Had Chris been unhurt, they might fly to London.

_We don't have any brooms, no horses, Gramps burned that hideous flying carpet two years ago.._. He closed his eyes briefly, heaving a sigh. Using the Floo would have been the obvious choice, but the house had been blown to smithereens. Even if, by force of some miracle, he managed to find a working fireplace, their chances of finding the jar of Floo powder his auntie had kept in the kitchen were below zero. Especially if **_she_** was still around, waiting for them to do just that.

Connor shivered and drew his robes close around him, sighing in exasperation as he realised they were still mucky and dripping. He'd forgotten to dry them – for someone who'd been trained all his life to survive a war, he was most certainly messing up royally.

Well, he just had to—what was it the Professor called it?

"Oh right, 'constant vigilance'. Yeah, that." His voice echoed off the walls, receiving no response save for the soft rustling from Chris' bed. "'Always keep a clear head, hot feet and a ready wand in a steady hand.'" He sing-songed it at midvoice, as a mantra he'd used so many times before. He knew the rules full well, had learned them by heart, had practiced the spells until he'd felt he would be able to rattle them off at any time. Not that any of this was of any use at the moment.

Because at the moment he had a foggy brain that refused to work at all costs, cold feet – and cold arms, and cold everything else, and he was shaking so badly he'd already dropped his wand twice.

Connor let out a humourless snort. Theory and practice were _clearly_ rather different from each other.

_Once that has been established_...

He cast a drying charm on his robes and a warming charm for good measure, and sat cross-legged on the floor to try and figure out what to do next. Sleep was out of the question, no matter how badly he wanted to do just that. He had been tossing and turning around for hours after all. Trouble was, his brain seemed to have gotten stuck on that thought.

_Sleep... warm... featherbed...No. _

_We need to get out of here. What did Gramps tell us about getting out of a fix?_

_Oh, right... the steps. Okay then, step one... Location: Not a clue. Somewhere below ground level. Way below. **Way** below ground level. _He gave a throaty chuckle. He could just about picture his Gramps' and his Professor's stern, reprimanding stares at his current assessment. Insufficient, they'd call it, then tell him off for fooling around and request he start over.

_Since neither are here, however..._

_Now step two... Destination: London. No, scratch that. Destination: out of here. There, that's better. Now... step three... Method.._.

"Method, dammit, _method_." he growled in frustration, banging the back of his head hard against the stone pillar. Not that this particular course of action helped enlighten him at all. How in the seven circles of hell could he get them out of this tunnel alive, never mind to London?

He didn't know where they were, where to go, or how to go on about it. _Bloody brilliant plan, that. Connor, you're a sodding genius._

All he knew was that he was cold and tired and sore, that his stomach only had stopped wringing itself into knots because it could not go any tighter, and that he had to include an uncon—here he glanced over to the bed for a second, amended his train of thought— an at best semi-conscious person in any plan he came up with.

He knew he had to come up with something, knew what he wanted nobody could give him. He knew he wanted his Gramps back, stern unbeatable, always ahead of things, always knowing what to do. He also knew his Gramps was gone and would be of no help. And he knew that, unless he gave their escape a whirl, Chris would die too. And he knew he would try, if he didn't feel so small and lost and helpless and guilty and in pain.

"That's an awful lot you know," he muttered, shaking himself to focus on the matter at hand. "No time for that," he told himself sternly, through gritted teeth. "Now," he stood up and turned to address the ceiling, his voice cracked and strained. "Whatever rubbish they taught you aside, what _do_ you know?"

_Not much, really. _

"_Lumos_. Best find out where we have to get out of first." Holding his lit wand aloft, he opened the door and stepped out into the dimly-lit passageway he had come down earlier. "Be right back, Chris," he said over his shoulder, before closing the door behind him.

The beam of his wand flickered over rough walls, his footfall almost unheard on the dusty floor. The silence was oppressive, but the least Connor wanted at the moment was some noise to disturb it; he felt as if he were walking in a graveyard, exploring a mausoleum long abandoned where he did not belong. Given half the chance he would have gladly turned back, but retracing his steps offered no solution to his problems. The only exit lay ahead, into the unknown darkness of the tunnel.

He could try and leave the same way he had come in, certainly. And then what? Inverarray had been taken by the Dark Side, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that it was crawling with dangers he wasn't prepared for. Particularly not when Chris was lying, half dead, in that side chamber.

He quickened his pace, scolding himself for the hammering in his chest, the slight trembling of his hand. Who was he fooling? He was terrified of what could possibly be awaiting him at the end of the tunnel, of disturbing the age-long slumber of whatever had been left behind here. Each wary, careful step lifted the layer of dust on the flagstones, sending chills down his spine, filling the air with the tingling of old magic. Yet the air remained clear, the temperature warm enough for him not to huddle in his cloak. If it hadn't been so creepy down here, it would have felt almost welcoming.

The tunnel was smooth, and the walls though rough, held not a crack. There were no side passages or doors, save for the scattered pillars here and there which seemed to have no purpose at all. It was against one of such pillars Connor took a brief rest, head pounding fit to burst. He'd done a lousy job patching himself up, and his every movement was slow and painful. It was Chris who did best at healing... and at everything else he set his mind to. That was how things had always been, and Connor was comfortable with that. The only thing he'd always excelled at had been getting them both into trouble, really.

_Just like now._

With a low grunt he raffled himself up, holding briefly onto the pillar and gripping his wand tightly. This time however, he vowed, he'd get them both out of it.

Whatever it took.

* * *

He'd been standing at the foot of the steps that brought the tunnel to an end and led to a heavy ebony door for what felt an eternity, tired eyes wandering over every bolt, every inch of wood, trying to discern whether it was cursed or not. On any other day, he'd have hesitated not a moment, but today was as uncommon as could be, and he wasn't _entirely_ daft. He racked his brains for a revealing spell and came up empty. At length, more put out by the fact that nothing was happening at all than by the possible dangers lying at the other side, Connor climbed the stone steps and reached for the latch.

A warm tingling sensation, much like the one he had experienced before, swept over him. The doorway suddenly gave off a golden glow as the ward activated—only to disappear moments later as it swung open with a loud, chilling _creak_.

Connor let out a surprised, half relieved chuckle, which died abruptly as he reminded himself of his task and peered beyond the doorway into the darkened room ahead.

The musty, mouldy smell of a long abandoned basement reached his nostrils, and he suppressed a cough as the dust swirled up into the air. Suddenly widely alert, he crossed the threshold warily, holding the tip of his lit wand just high enough to see what lay ahead.

The beam of his wand fell on some armchairs and low tables set around a central fireplace, piles of old yellowing newspapers, rags... He was standing in what looked like a sitting room, except for the fact that it was clearly underground: the grey stones of the wall were bare except for a few bookshelves, and there were no windows.

Connor frowned, started picking his way across the room. Someone had lived here, that much was clear to him. Someone who hadn't placed much interest in tidying up after themselves, if the bones of small animals and the large grey feathers scattered here and there on the floor were of any indication. A few pots and dishes had been piled on a table, a heap of rags and torn, dirty robes had been pushed underneath. This someone had definitely been a slob.

That same someone had left the fireplace well stocked, suggesting an intention to return, perhaps, but whoever it was had never come back. It hadn't been a muggle, either; the newspapers were Daily Prophets, all dated 1993 and mostly concerned with the capture of a certain Sirius Black.

'**Sirius Black Sighted in Cornwall – Ministry of Magic Confident in Capture**' was the most recent headline he could find, complete with the customary picture of the infamous mass-murderer blinking at the reader, which Connor didn't even bother to look at. With a scoff, he tossed the Daily Prophet aside and continued exploring the room, which linked to another chamber through a stone archway. There wasn't much to be seen in the second room, which had the look and old smell of an abandoned stable, except for another set of stairs and a door which, after some struggling, turned out to open to the outdoors.

Momentarily blinded, Connor stood in the doorway for a few moments, relishing the freshness of the air after so long underground and blinking stupidly at the bright sunshine pouring in from outside.

Once his eyes had grown accustomed to the bright morning light, however, he could do nothing except gape. He was standing amidst the ruins of an old manor house that had once overlooked the North Sea and the lands around, and which gave Ruin Hill its name. The door he had just come through was fitted on a solitary archway, one of the three remaining standing ones in the place, and had always been closed in the past. He and Chris had played here quite often before, and called that arch the door that led to nowhere.

"I'll be—" He walked around the stone arch that held the door, and found only the usual sight of overgrown marble floors and caved-in roof. An eyebrow shot up in appreciation. Hiding that basement was a nice bit of magic, really.

He looked around, and caught the familiar sight of Inverarray miles ahead to the South, still shrouded in impenetrable fog. His heart sank. He might have found a way out of the tunnel, but they were, if possible, even farther away from safety. Shuddering in the icy cold wind that came from the North, Connor climbed on a heap of rubble to have a look eastwards.

The Dark Mark hovered in the sky above the remains of the place he had once called home, the skull grinning mockingly at him almost level with his eyes, a sneering mark of victory shrouded in a cloud of black smoke that rose from what once had been the manor. Connor looked down, feeling small and helpless.

Wherever he looked though, there was no comfort in the sight. From Ruin Hill, he could see the DalRiada valley from above, which had once been helpful in spotting Gramps returning home from some outing. The stables had been destroyed, the fields burnt, the outer wall reduced to rubble, the inner buildings blasted apart, the ancient battlements broken. It made his heart ache, but he couldn't look away.

"At least now I know where we are," he muttered at the wind, swallowing back the knot in his throat. There was no comfort in the words, either. What could he do? How to get Chris to London?

All he had in his pocket was a bag half-full of chocolate frogs, a crumpled-up letter and an order he had no idea how to fulfil. He sank onto a rock and stared absently at the smoking ruins of his home, as if that could provide the answers he was looking for.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright—something had caught his eye as the smoke blew to one side. He squinted against the swirling smoke and noticed that the manor hadn't been completely blown apart. A few parts seemed to be still standing, and perhaps... perhaps, with much luck, he would find something that would help them.

Gramps had kept Floo Powder in his office, and maybe there was a fireplace that still was in working conditions there...

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He had to go back. But he had to get Chris first, they could camp out in that basement room... a few cleaning spells would take care of the dirt, and they could get that fireplace going, too, Chris could use some fresh air anyway.

With that thought and without another glance at the house, he leapt to his feet and disappeared into the basement again, closing the door securely behind him. He never saw the robed figures that left the house and walked across the yard, but hurried back down the tunnel, a plan forming in his mind.

* * *

"Welcome back amongst the living."

Harry blinked weakly, squinting at the early morning light pouring in through his window.

"Hi," he said after a while, his eyes slowly focusing on the green-robed woman taking his pulse.

"How are you feeling?" the question was asked in the customary, businesslike manner he supposed all Healers and doctors used.

"Hurts," he mumbled after a few moments' insight. His answer made the Healer smile.

"Anything else apart from that?" she asked kindly.

"Dunno." He racked his brains for a word that would help him along. "Dizzy."

While Andromeda ran her tests, mumbling to herself and occasionally asking Harry to perform certain movements, Harry struggled to wake fully.

"'M sorry for..."

"Threatening me? Cough for me, please."

"For trying to blow your head off," he clarified, coughing as instructed. It hurt.

"No problem. I expected no less from you." This was not what Harry had expected to hear.

"Pardon?"

"Well, I used to be your parents' Healer. James never grew out of that particular reaction."

"My dad tried to kill you?" He asked in disbelief.

"Repeatedly," came the matter-of-fact answer. "So did Sirius, and many others. Any self-respecting Hit Wizard or Auror would. Oh no, not try to kill _me_ in particular, but anyone within their field of vision upon regaining consciousness. Back then, trust was a rare commodity. But what am I saying? You seem to be much in the same situation." She eyed him curiously for a moment. "Why _didn't_ you blow my head off?"

"I _was_... I was going to, but throttling you seemed a better idea."

Healer Tonks chuckled and ruffled his hair.

"You're not mad, then?"

"No. Now try and sit up, I need a look at your back."

As he struggled to move, he realised they were alone in the room. There was no sign of Remus. His eyes fell on the bedside table and the loudly ticking alarm clock he had repaired years before. It was seven in the morning, but of which day?

"How long was I out?" He asked, wincing as she fingered his ribcage.

"All night. It's the twenty-fourth today," Healer Tonks informed, and she was about to say something more when a loud crash made them both jump.

"What was _that_?" Harry asked, looking around for his wand and glasses. A second later they were both in his hand.

"I—" Healer Tonks said, cutting herself off and striding to the door. "Stay here," she instructed sharply. "I'll go check."

"But—" Harry protested, but the door already had shut behind her.

"Stupid blankets," Harry muttered angrily moments later, wincing as he tried, yet again, to stand. "Gah, let me out of here!" This last was directed, surprisingly, at the furniture. He was heartily sick of being stuck in this bed, comfortable as it was.

And stuck he was, quite literally. He couldn't do much more than sit up, let alone try and leave the bed. He assumed Healer Tonks had had something to do with it, and it did nothing to improve his already foul mood.

Confused shouting reached his ears, trailing through his door from downstairs. Much pounding could be heard too, and he assumed it was one of his uncle Vernon's formidable temper tantrums. He had, after all, grown up hearing that shouting, more often than not directed at him, not to recognise it immediately.

Another, much shriller voice joined in – likely aunt Petunia – constantly cut off by several others, which Harry could only guess were Mrs. Weasley, the Twins, and probably that grunting roar was courtesy of one Mad-Eye Moody, but he couldn't really know for certain.

The babble downstairs rose and fell, coming to him in unintelligible, muffled waves. Healer Tonks had likely tampered with his door as well.

_CRASH._

That had sounded like a vase, or maybe even one of those hideous clay ornaments aunt Petunia was so fond of.

"Vernon _NOOO_!"

_That_ had sounded like aunt Petunia.

Harry listened intently, and sure enough, there was much trampling and shouting next, the noises were considerably closer too... and the floor started shaking. He could feel his bed practically hopping in place with every step his uncle took.

Either this was an earthquake, or uncle Vernon was running up the stairs.

Suddenly there was an almighty _STOMP_, and the door flew open.

Framed in the doorway like a rabid rhinoceros stood uncle Vernon, spittle covering his moustache, his face a bright, shiny purple. He looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him, and a dark blue vein was throbbing in his forehead.

Harry was long over his fear of his uncle, however, and merely gave him a slightly uninterested look.

"YOU!" uncle Vernon roared loud enough to make Harry's window rattle, pointing one of his sausage-like fingers at his nephew. "YOU-HAVE-SPENT-YOUR-LAST-NIGHT-IN-MY-HOUSE-BOY!"

Before Harry could react, Vernon crossed his room in two strides, hauled him bodily out of the bed, and pinned him against the wall.

"I will be rid of you once and for all, you useless little pile of filth!" he snarled into Harry's ear.

* * *

"_Dumbledore_?" Chris echoed weakly. "Gramps _hates_ Dumbledore, why would he—"

"The Professor is with him, you know." Connor replied stubbornly. "Besides, it wasn't hate—they had a... a disagreement of sorts."

Chris scoffed and winced at this understatement, but said nothing. Connor took the chance to bring his point a notch further.

"Dumbledore won't turn us down, now will he? Even if Gramps and he bloody _loathed_ each other?"

"Well, no..." Chris sounded unconvinced.

"He's definitely no Death Eater, mate... he won't turn us out into the streets, and that is about as much as we can hope for right now." Connor finished bandaging his brother's chest in silence while the other stared at the empty grate. "We can take it from there, once you're cured," he added, trying to sound confident. Chris looked up at him.

"Where...?"

"I don't really know." He sighed heavily. "If they could get into DalRiada just like that, they most likely already ransacked or at least heard of the Dover house... and we can't do much of anything at the moment. You're hurt."

"So're you, little brother."

Connor snorted. Only Chris could make such a blatantly obvious statement sound so dignified.

"Yeah... There's that," he conceded, helping his brother into his robes.

"So how are we...?"

"I'll go back home, I think... Gramps' office might still be in one piece. I'll look for some Floo Powder. We'll use the fireplace in that room I found."

"What room?" Chris asked, sounding faintly curious. This was a huge improvement to a mere hour earlier, where he had been little less than unconscious and answering to Connor's every word with groans.

"It's a parlour thing smack at the end of the tunnel. Leads to the ruins of Ruin Hill..." At Chris' questioning look, he elaborated. "Turns out the door that leads to nowhere does lead somewhere after all. Here."

Chris cocked an eyebrow and gave Connor a look that told volumes.

"You think it's connected to the network?" he asked after a while.

"Can't hurt to try it once we have the Floo Powder... At any rate, I'll look for a working fireplace back home too, but I'd rather you didn't move more than you absolutely have to." Connor's tone was nonchalant, but he didn't meet his brother's eyes. Instead, he busied himself with adjusting Chris' boots until he could stall no longer.

"Come on, it's sort of a long way," he said in a would-be cheerful tone that fooled neither of them, and half-heaved the other onto his feet where he was left teetering for a few moments before Connor helped him onto a floating stretcher. "I even cleaned up a bit."

The way was indeed long, particularly since Connor kept stumbling over his feet and needed frequent stops to catch his breath. On the stretcher, Chris kept fiddling with his lit wand and talking non-stop. His favourite game now was twenty thousand questions.

"...So, why did he do that then?" he ended his latest line of questioning with an expectant look at his brother, who leaned his chin against his knees and answered in the same way he had for the past half hour.

"Dunno." There was a silence that stretched for the space of a breath, roughly the amount of time Chris needed to figure out what to ask next.

"Why d'you reckon he didn't just... oh I don't know, portkey us all away?"

"I don't know." He had done his best to help his brother; the continued silence with which his every effort had been faced all night had been unnerving to the extreme, but now it had ended, all Connor wished for were five minutes of peace.

Chris went on, undeterred. "He _could_ have, but instead he stayed. You said yourself he knew someone was breaking down the wards, didn't you? He could have kept a portkey ready for when the Death Eaters' wards were broken, and just... dunno, activated it. He could've left with us then, and he'd be all right, wouldn't he?"

"I don't know, mate."

Chris swallowed, fell silent for a few moments. Connor picked himself up from the dusty floor and resumed his march down the tunnel, wiping sweat from his face. Keeping the stretcher in midair was taxing enough without having to rack his brains about why Gramps had done or not done something during the attack.

"Why _did_ he chose to fight, Connor?"

"I... don't know."

"How hard is it to make a portkey anyway? I mean—"

"_I don't know_!"

Chris blinked.

"Well, I don't either."

* * *

"As things stand, My Lord and Master, we could venture to call the project an overall success," Rasmus said, levitating a goblet to his hand with a flourish and thereby disproving the rumour that the Death Eaters were bereft of any comforts when in the Dark Lord's presence.

There was no cowering on cold stone floors, no unforgivable curses thrown left and right. The robes of everyone present were impeccable, the wine exquisite and the food delicious. Certainly, the cowering and uncomfortable grovelling did happen, just not every day. This meeting was of the utmost importance, for the innermost circle had suffered losses amongst their ranks in the last raid, and the different projects needed to be evaluated. Meetings such as this were reserved for great halls and fine dining, not the dank dark of the dungeon chamber, from where all missions started and were ended.

The Dark Lord nodded once, a canapé in one hand, a tall wine goblet in the other.

"I do believe, My Lord and Master, that whilst the raid on the McAlpin estate was ultimately failed in its original purpose, we have gained a considerable amount of knowledge," here Rasmus paused minutely to glance at his friend, who moved not a jot. "particularly in the regard of what old Angus was hiding." Another pause, longer than the one before.

"In the whole scope, however, we took out one of the most crucial strongholds of the light, we have gathered more cores, and the Clan McAlpin has been dealt a severe blow before they came out into public life again, as they no doubt planned to do."

To Rasmus it was clear what great step forward it had been for them, but he was also certain that not many had thought of the strategic benefit the destruction of Angus McAlpin and his estate would bring for them. If the estate had remained unknown to them, the Light Side would soon operate there and make it one of the main strongholds worldwide. They had disposed of this threat before it was actually brought to use, most effectively disabled the Light Side's northernmost beacon before it was even needed.

"However," Rasmus went on, striding slowly, almost solemnly past the maimed innermost circle, "our side also suffered heavy losses, some of which cause utmost grief to this circle, some of which can be seen as a relief..." Here, his words were greeted with the expected laughter; MacPherson was one of the members of the Death Eater squad nobody would grieve for. "Some of these former members were more useful in death than in life, I can assure you."

"Waste not, want not," The Dark Lord said in a low, self-satisfied hiss.

A second collective chuckle ran across the room, and wineglasses were refilled.

"Yet now our numbers are dwindled, and we all know what this means." Rasmus raised his glass as if in toast. "New faces shall come to the Innermost Circle."

The Dark Lord assented once more, all eyes on him.

"We shall indeed need new faces in the Circle, Rasmus. Five in all, unless my memory fails me." All present nodded, for only a braindead toad – or Rasmus Thanatovich himself – would dare contradict their master.

"May I suggest Severus Snape as first new member, as he has proven himself in battle recently." It wasn't a question, and the Innermost Circle assented as one. Since he had saved the Dark Lord from severe injury if not death during the last raid, Snape had been considered as a new member of the Circle, and now it was only a matter of making it official.

Rasmus smiled coldly. "He shall be informed shortly, My Lord."

The black and silver letter would reach Snape and another four within the next half hour, and the expected responses in the affirmative would arrive before dinner was served. Five places were set at the table for the newcomers, and the final test would be run, plans would be made and set into action, bringing them one step closer to victory and absolute control of the wizarding world.

* * *

The shadows were lengthening when the door that led to nowhere opened again. From it emerged a marginally more rested Connor. He'd left Chris dozing in front of the fireplace, after a meal consisting of chocolate frogs and water that had left them both hungrier than before.

Mentally adding food to his growing list, he closed and sealed the door behind him and took off across the remains of Ruin Hill manor, disappearing in the thicket not long afterwards. As he made his way across the familiar woods, he drew his cloak close around him. He'd have to get them both clothes that weren't torn, as well—it was freezing cold.

Sunset was near when he reached the edge of the quiet forest and beheld his old home once again. Smoke still rose from the house, and mist was forming amongst the smouldering remains, shimmering ghostly silver in the twilight. A smell of burning and decay filled his nostrils, and he swallowed. He had often been out late at night, and never had the place looked so ominous or forbidding as it did now.

The air itself sent chills down his spine, as if in warning. He hesitated for a moment before leaving the shelter of the thicket, listening hard. It was deadly quiet around, every corner all but screaming at him to leave—but there was nothing to it, he had to go and see what was salvageable.

Even despite the lack of signs of life, he stole through the outer wall, advancing warily and as silently as a shadow, his wand unlit and at the ready. He lingered for a moment by the gate, eyes wandering over the courtyard... he froze.

For an instant, he had caught a glimpse of movement—a figure moving around the ruined kitchen. When he looked again, he saw nothing. Maybe... a trick of the light? He stood flat against the wall, staring into the growing darkness, trying to make out any movement for what felt hours.

Nothing.

Could it be the Death Eaters were still there? Had someone survived the attack?

With a last, steadying breath, he crept towards the house, eyes and ears peeled for any sign of warning. He slipped in through the shattered window of the sitting room, where he was met by fumes and heaps of rubble. He picked his way slowly and warily across furniture, clothes, books—all burnt, torn, scattered by the wind.

The familiar halls and corridors were no more, tapestries that had hung on the walls now were torn to pieces, old passages laid bare, the ceilings caved in. So was the main staircase. He had been right, however: the upper level was still partly whole. He tried to reach a stone stair that went through the back of the kitchen, but the way was blocked. Darkness was growing, and with it the feeling of being watched.

Gritting his teeth and throwing caution to the winds, Connor returned to the remains of the grand staircase and started climbing. He just wanted to find the Floo Powder and get out of there as soon as possible. The stairs creaked loudly under his weight, but he paid them no heed; the upper part had been blasted apart, but if he jumped and held onto the railing on the upper level, he just might reach his Gramps' office. Now if only the staircase held his weight for a little longer...

Trying not to lose his balance, Connor reached the last step and took a leap as high as he could, his hand closing around the wooden railings even as the staircase crumpled and fell apart under his flailing legs with a loud crash. All it took was a heave—and he was crouching at the middle of the hallway that linked most of the main rooms in the upper level, even as a cloud of dust rose behind him.

Without a glance backwards at the gaping hole where the stairs had once been, he hurried to his left, past the library and into the office. It looked much like he remembered, except the window had been blasted to bits; but all he cared for at the moment was the heavy oak desk.

It took a few strides to reach it, a few practiced taps of his wand to open the various drawers to rummage through their contents, which under any other circumstances would have held his interest far longer than they did now. Instead, he stuffed coins, small boxes, whatever looked remotely useful into his robes pockets, feeling like a common thief and yet unable to find the one thing that could mean safety for him and Chris.

"Come onnn, _where are you_?" he muttered, fingers flying frantically over quills and ink bottles, blotting paper, parchment, discarding items by touch alone.

It was almost completely dark when he opened the last drawer, heart hammering in his ears, sweat trickling down his neck and splattering onto the polished wood.

A shuffling sound, like something heavy being dragged along the floor, made him look up abruptly.

Someone was standing in the doorway.

Connor's breath caught in his chest. The figure took one step forward. _Drag...thump_.

"_Gramps_?" he breathed in disbelief, his left hand unwittingly tightening its grip on his wand. Hope rose, for a split second.

The next, it plummeted down and shattered.

Gramps was—he'd _seen_ him fall lifelessly to the ground. He had _been_ there. And yet, he was walking—no, _dragging_ himself— towards him.

He _couldn't_ be, he wasn't... and yet, Connor hesitated, frozen, as the figure came closer, blocking the only way out, dragging its right leg towards him.

_Drag... thump. Drag... thump._

Grey eyes met pale green, and Connor knew. Gramps was dead, Voldemort had killed him, that wasn't his grandfather. That thing wasn't any more than an empty shell, approaching only to crush him, it wouldn't stop until he was as dead as it was— and there were more coming already, pushing their way through the door.

His right hand brushed against leather.

_Drag... thump. Drag... thump._

The thing was only a mere couple of feet away, the desk was the only thing between them now. It raised its arms...

His eyes never leaving the hollow ones of the only father figure he had ever known, Connor's fist closed around the leather pouch, raising his wand with his left and backing off sharply, felt the window ledge digging into his back.

"I'm sorry, Gramps." He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, opened them again.

"_Incendio_."

* * *

TBC I SWEAR!

A/N: Well, looks like things are rolling again. I apologise deeply for the delay in this one chapter, and I shall refrain from giving any sort of excuse. Suffice it to say that I did try, I've never stopped writing, but what with the highly disappointing HBP release I did not feel up to updating for the longest time. There were many ways I could go with chapter 16, I finished it twice, and I was totally unhappy with it.

The storyline here onwards will include many elements of HBP, as you will no doubt have noticed since the first zombie came up in this chapter. The major HBP-compatibility however, will be in the appearance of characters, spells and items we have learned of, as well as a bit on horcruxes, but this remains an AU that takes place post-OotP, there will be little to no shipping (sorry to disappoint those pumpkin piers amongst you or whoever happens to ship R/Hr, H/G and whatnot/whatnot, the most you'll get may be a filler paragraph or a mention the ship exists), and I was honestly amazed how little I needed to adapt for my fic to still make sense and be the canon-compliant AU I have tried to make it so far.

Thanks for your patience, loyalty and death threats, and stick around for Chapter 17, which bears the working title "Useless". Nifty, huh? Cheerful in the very least.

Cookie points to whoever recognises the following:

The name McFusty, which is taken from JK's works and ought to give you a good hint as to what is to come.

Angus McAlpin's mistake.

The nature of the link between Harry, Connor and Moldywarts. Er, Marv... er... Voldieshorts.


	17. Journey to London

**Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling, and I don't own Harry Potter, a fact for which I am partly grateful, for some unfathomable reason. This is an AU piece of fan fiction, which you already know, otherwise you wouldn't be reading chapter 17 of it. So, anything you recognise from the books, comes from the books. If you recognise elements similar to other fics, it's pure coincidence, and totally unintentional.**

**Whatever you don't recognise from elsewhere is mine, however rubbish it may be.**

**Dedications: To my friend Brina, who is a fellow Potter fan, who hasn't ever laid eyes on this fic, and who is presently in the hospital. Our thoughts are with you, so get well soon or else. To Shayde, who's been worried sick too, and is actually reading this sorry attempt at literature.**

**As per usual, dedicated to Japonica, for setting dear old Padfoot to slobber on my copy of HBP. It looks much better now, some bits have almost been erased, go Padfoot! To Sinfonica, for one of the best thought-out reviews ever, and to EsScaper, because she adores Sirius too.**

* * *

**Chapter 17 – Journey to London**

Harry had been right, Kingsley mused, sinking into the first available chair in the kitchen of the Dursley household. The Aurors had found nothing. None of the things they had set out to find, at any rate.

They _had_ found hundreds of hungry Dementors, a town's worth of soulless people, a handful of angry, rather vindictive trolls, and, once they spotted the Dark Mark hovering around in the distance, the very people they had set out to find turned into the living dead and after their blood.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was by no means a mindless optimist, nor was he one to give up on anything easily. He had a knack for analysing the toughest scenes from different aspects at once, and always found something of use out of the worst situations, which was why he was given the worst, most wearisome, and seemingly hopeless cases to begin with. If Kingsley couldn't solve it, nobody could, was the word in the Department.

It had not been a good assignment, from whichever angle he looked at it. Three Aurors had ended up in St. Mungo's, and two of them would take a long time to recover. None of the targets of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been left alive, either. Not a single one. They had even seen a _dog_ Inferius, for crying out loud.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had even turned his own fallen followers into the living dead.

A team of the best Hit Wizards the Ministry could offer was already on its way to contain the Inferi situation, under orders to retrieve the bodies so the corresponding burials could take place.

History was repeating itself.

An entire family annihilated.

Just like years before.

Silence reigned in the kitchen after Kingsley took his seat; all Order members present were still digesting the report he had given them, no doubt. Molly, as bleary-eyed and pale as the rest of them, handed Shacklebolt a cup of strong tea, which he gratefully accepted.

None had had a wink of sleep in the past two nights, and they were exhausted beyond coherent thought. The perkiest of all were, surprisingly, the Weasley twins, who seemed able to shake off their sleepiness at the slightest hint of action. At the moment, however, both wore identical scowls on their faces.

Vernon Dursley had, to say it in their own words, "gone totally round the bend" that morning. He'd stormed, in a frenzy of rage, out of the sitting room, where he had spent most of the night huddled with his family, and barged into Harry's room, pinning him to the wall and babbling nonsense at him. The twins had of course, been on him in a blink and wrestled the beefy man away from young Potter, who was too weak to react.

Healer Tonks said it was due to the extreme magical drain he had suffered, and Kingsley added one more item to the Order's ever-growing list of troubles.

Since that incident, the Weasley twins had guarded the Dursleys personally, and Harry was to be moved out from the muggle household as soon as possible. Which was what caused them most trouble at the moment: Healer Tonks had told them, in no uncertain terms, that if they moved Harry by any means whatsoever, he might not survive the trip. Thus it was that they were stuck waiting at four, Privet Drive, for an all-clear that hadn't come all day. It was evening already, and Healer Tonks still wasn't giving them the slightest hint of when they could take Harry to a safer location.

Then there had been the matter of _where_ to take Harry, of course. The safety wards and spells at Hogwarts were being set again and reinforced, and the school was in no condition to withstand a Death Eater attack. Wouldn't be, for at least one month; Molly and Arthur had, of course, immediately suggested the Burrow, but it would need to be turned into a fortress for Harry to visit safely, and doing this required time they did not have.

In the past, the Order Headquarters had been the obvious choice, but now Sirius was gone another matter came into light: who was to receive the House of Black in inheritance. Sirius had left Harry all of his possessions, naturally, and technically Headquarters ought to be as safe as ever... except they could not be certain of it yet. As Dumbledore had put it, "some of the oldest families restrict their houses to be inherited solely by those of the family's blood, and in this case, the house could now belong to Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa or Draco Malfoy, or, in the best of cases, Andromeda or Nymphadora Tonks..."

It was all less than encouraging, even to the most optimistic of people, and Kingsley did not begrudge the twins their scowls.

The Dursleys had taken refuge in the master bedroom, where Dumbledore instructed they should be left alone, despite Mad-Eye's protests they should be at least petrified – the twins had offered turning them into hot pink slugs, matching evil grins in place – but Dumbledore had specifically forbidden them to do so; muggles should not be treated in such a way, he argued, and was reluctantly obeyed.

It was the old Headmaster they were waiting for at the moment. Dumbledore had left in a hurry, to find an item that would tell them, beyond doubt, if Harry was to take possession of number twelve, Grimmauld Place or not: the signet ring of the House of Black.

Healer Tonks had frowned upon hearing this news.

"The ring can only be touched by those of the Black bloodline," she said, shaking her head. "According to the tales, only the rightful heir of the House can wear it. It was made with ancient, powerful magic—there _has_ to be another way to prove whether the Potter kid can go to your _headquarters_ or not."

However, there seemed to be nothing else, and Dumbledore had left to retrieve the ring.

He arrived, seemingly out of breath, in a swish of robes, holding a silvery something with a pair of sugar thongs.

"I have it here," he said to the Order. "I fear Healer Tonks was right—anyone not belonging to the Black bloodline touching this ring will be burned rather badly." He strode to the kitchen table and placed the ring on it, raising a red-raw thumb and forefinger. "I recommend against handling it," he added quite unnecessarily; only Healer Tonks, who was summoned to the kitchen as soon as Dumbledore arrived, approached it.

She picked it up, not without a shudder, and examined it. It was a masterpiece of Goblin jewellery, two large diamonds embedded on the soft, woven white gold representing the status of the family as the second oldest, an emerald placed between the diamonds. The most exquisite part to look at, however, were the crest and family motto engraved in the central emerald, shimmering silver on the green background.

"I have to say," she declared matter-of-factly, "whatever rubbish they believed in, the Blacks certainly had good taste." She placed the ring on the tabletop again, and took a hold of Dumbledore's scorched hand next, gracing him with a sideways smirk.

"I daresay the legend so far is true, then. Tsk, tsk, Headmaster, you ought to know better than this."

* * *

Harry opened his eyes slowly. Someone had been tapping his shoulder gently and calling his name.

"Had a nice nap?" Healer Tonks asked from her chair by his bedside. Harry shrugged in response, tried to sit up. Healer Tonks helped him sit, placing some pillows against the wall so he could lean on them comfortably, and began looking him over.

He certainly did not feel very rested, he decided upon trying to answer to the Healer's usual questions. Most of all, however, he was parched.

"Harry, there is something you need to do before you go back to sleep," she said while helping him down a few mouthfuls of water. "Dumbledore wants you to try a ring," she explained, but the way she said the headmaster's name wasn't lost on her patient, who half-rolled his eyes and nodded in defeat.

"Er...?" Harry prompted when no more information was forthcoming, surprising himself yet again with his articulation skills.

"Oh, yes. This is a ring that belonged to... well, it was... it was Sirius'." She paused, and Harry didn't miss the sudden contrition of her bearing.

"What with it?" Harry asked, frowning. Why would anyone want him to try anything of Sirius' _now_ of all times?

"Dumbledore seems to think it will tell us if you're the current owner of Sirius' house," Healer Tonks explained, her tone suggesting she was less than happy with anything to do with that place, which Harry privately agreed with.

"That is correct, Harry," came Dumbledore's voice from behind her. His hand was covered in the same purple paste Madam Pomfrey had used on Cedric back in Harry's fourth year... Harry gave himself a shake and looked away from the headmaster's hand. The last thing he needed now were thoughts of long dead people piling themselves upon his already confused brain.

"It is not safe for you to stay here," Dumbledore went on gently, sitting down beside Healer Tonks. Harry thought he was becoming better every day at stating the obvious. "You shall spend the rest of your holidays at a place where we can guarantee your security."

"Will I go to Hogwarts, then?" Harry asked hopefully. The last place where he wanted to be ever again was number twelve, Grimmauld Place, although he knew the answer to that question even before he asked. Healer Tonks had mentioned something about that ring thing of Sirius', and Harry doubted that it would be a ticket to school one month early.

Predictably, Dumbledore shook his head.

"Hogwarts is being readied for your arrival in September, it won't be safe for you to go there until then," he explained. "No, Harry, at the moment the only safe place we can house you at is Headquarters, which is the reason why I need you to try on this ring." He looked at Healer Tonks, who, to Harry's surprise, took out the said object and held it out for Harry to see.

"Only the heir to the House of Black can wear it," Dumbledore explained further. "However, Harry, I shall only ask you to touch it first... there is... a risk of getting burnt if it is not meant for you."

Harry, who was reaching out to take the ring already, withdrew his hand at once.

"How is that thing supposed to help, Professor?" he asked, not at all keen to touch the ring anymore.

It was Healer Tonks who replied to his question.

"Sirius left you the house, Harry, but the old families have their ways of deciding who gets the ancient heirlooms," she said, the derisive tone in her voice suggesting what she thought of such a system.

"Usually, the properties and more valuable things are passed on from the head of the House to his heir, based on blood heritage. If such ancient magic is in place, the house would go to Narcissa's son, Draco, being as he is the last... living male with Black blood in his line. In that case, you would clearly _not_ be safe there."

Harry glared at the ring. The mere idea of none other than Malfoy the Amazing Bouncing Ferret getting Sirius' house, no matter how horrible the place was, was enough to make him want to risk putting that ring on. He let the new information sink in for a few moments, then reached out for the object still resting on Healer Tonks' outstretched palm.

"Let's see then," he muttered, touching it gingerly. A jolt of magic coursed through him, making his entire arm prickle coldly, but there was no burn. Heartened by this, he took the ring and slipped it on his finger for a few moments, before taking it off again.

Dumbledore and Healer Tonks let out identical sighs of relief.

"Well, that shows legend was wrong in this one aspect, eh?" she commented, gesturing for Harry to keep the ring when he attempted to return it. "It's yours, lad. As is the Black town house."

Harry looked down at the ring, the fierce vindictiveness that had taken hold of him for a moment gone, replaced by the sort of emptiness he had been fighting to acknowledge for so long. He was glad Malfoy wasn't getting squat of Sirius' belongings, but he still didn't want any of them all the same.

What he wanted was, quite simply, Sirius back.

He glanced over at the foot of his bed, but there was no sign of a black dog, no wizard sitting there playing with a pair of spheres to entertain himself, no mocking comments at Dumbledore or Healer Tonks... nothing.

He sighed, feeling bereft.

Just then, an owl fluttered in through Harry's bedroom window and landed on Dumbledore's hat, dropping a copper-coloured scroll in his lap. Dumbledore opened it, scanned it for a few seconds. His eyes widened, and Harry saw him stop reading and start over before standing hurriedly – the owl gave an indignant hoot and fluttered on top of Hedwig's cage – and stuffing the letter in his pocket.

"Tell me when we can move him, Healer Tonks," Dumbledore said, already making his way out of Harry's room. "I shall request the necessary arrangements to be made at once. I hope you feel better soon, Harry." And with these words, he strode out of the room and out of sight.

Harry sighed, looking at the owl which was already helping itself to owl treats and water Harry had left there for his own Hedwig, who still hadn't shown so much as a feather. He yawned, trying to scrounge up some degree of concern for Hedwig's whereabouts, or even bring himself to wonder what Dumbledore's mysterious letter was all about, but his eyes felt like lead again. He didn't even listen to Healer Tonks' comments as he sank back against his pillows.

"Right, so you still need to take these here..." Healer Tonks said as if nothing had happened at all, reaching for several vials and a glass, "_before_ you go back to sleep, Potter, do make a bit of an effort."

* * *

He ran all the way back to Ruin Hill as if the hounds of hell were hot on his heels, stumbling, falling, raffling himself up and running some more, paying no attention to the scratches and bruises he got from not sticking to the main pathway through the thicket.

He could still feel Gramps' cold, dead grip on him, the smell of smoke and death that rose from his simple incineration spell lingering in his nostrils. It made him wish he'd never cast it; he ran all the faster for it, the stitch in his side be damned.

Connor didn't stop until the door to the hidden basement was in sight, heart pumping madly in his chest, his breath ragged and wheezy. He all but threw himself at the door, fumbling with his wand as he clumsily cast the unlocking spell right-handed. His left was held pressed against his chest, every bone crushed, out of place, probably broken. Gramps had done that... and, in retrospect, his jump out of the second floor window certainly had not helped matters along.

Once inside, he slammed the door shut, let the bundle he'd been carrying fall to the floor, and rattled off every locking spell he had ever heard of and then some he made up on the spot—he doubted "bloodyclosealready" would be considered a spell at all in any magical circle—before he slid shakily to the floor. His legs simply refused to carry him a moment longer. It took a long time for him to control his breathing, or indeed stare at anything that wasn't the door.

At length he snapped out of it, half dragged himself to his brother's side, who was sleeping almost the way he had left him, dropping the bundle he had been carrying on the floor.

He knew he needed to light a fire, it was getting colder by the hour... fire would keep them away. Had they followed him all the way up here? He'd been too busy getting away from the Inferi to be careful about the amount of noise he made. Could Inferi follow tracks? Would the Lestrange woman be with them? He shuddered at the thought.

Connor knelt by the circular fireplace, and pointed his wand shakily at the pile of wood in the grate, trying to catch his breath even now.

He never got the fire going. A wave of dizziness overcame him, and the world started spinning around him. His body had finally had enough, and moments later, he sank to the floor, unconscious.

* * *

Everything was quiet at number four, Privet Drive. The freaks had had quite a ruckus going on earlier, but now they were all either gone god-knew-where or asleep.

Vernon Dursley held still in his pacing for a few moments, listening hard. All day, he and his loving family had been confined to their bedroom, hiding from the freaks who had taken complete control of the house. _His_ house, he reminded himself. Those freaks would do good in remembering that as well. And he'd give them an unmistakable reminder, oh yes.

No freaks were welcome here, a simple fact those weirdoes seemed to have overlooked completely. For years.

He would let them know, in no uncertain terms, yes he would... Vernon Dursley's eyes narrowed. He glanced at his watch, where the luminous dial told him it was close to midnight. If there was a time to strike, it was now. He held back a laugh; he would rid his family of that dangerous little belch of nature once and for all, in the so-called "witching hour" to boot.

He had received the leading monstrosity in his room earlier that evening, that crackpot who taught the boy those tricks in that freak school of his. Well, "received" was a way of putting it. The old codger had strolled into his room as if the place belonged to him, and very kindly let the Dursleys know they were moving the boy elsewhere, as soon as he was in a state fit to travel. The head hoodlum had mentioned something of some sort of "flu network", as if Vernon cared a jot about how they planned on getting the boy out of the house. Trust those monsters to spread disease while transporting themselves.

But no, the worst part had been the "request", if one could call it that, for the Dursleys to welcome the boy home for the next summer holidays. Petunia had nodded numbly, and the bearded old coot had smiled benevolently and left, but he did not hold her as she sobbed onto Vernon's shoulder for hours.

That did it. Vernon Dursley was by no means a girly man, but he could absolutely not endure his wife's tears, his son's terror of leaving the room to so much as use the loo, or anyone, _anyone_ taking over the run of his house, his life, his future, as if they were mere props in a theatre play.

All because of that thrice damned, misbegotten _boy_.

"Preparations to move him," Vernon mocked in a low grunt, "If you ask me, all the _preparations_ needed are a cage and a set of padlocks." If everything went according to his plan, however, all the boy would need was a wooden box... placed six feet underground.

Vernon sent a last glance to his sleeping wife and son. Dudley was snoring softly, and Petunia still sniffled at times. She had cried herself to sleep, and nothing he or Dudders had done had improved her mood. What could, if Dud had told them everything that had happened while he was with that misbegotten freak of nature?

"Everything will be all right, my dear," he murmured, kissing her on the cheek. He was beyond fear now, past thinking of his own well-being in the face of the danger he had housed for almost fifteen years under his roof.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Vernon Dursley was the most desperate man alive on earth, he was certain of it.

He let himself out of his bedroom as quietly as possible – well, that creak of his door could hardly be helped, now could it? The boy hadn't been doing his chores lately – and stole along the corridor to the boy's room.

He paused on the landing, listening hard. Yes, those identical redheaded hooligans were asleep, he could hear their breathing coming from the sitting room; the head freak and the creepy-eyed monster had left, along with most of their followers, confident that they had the Dursleys under their thumbs.

Vernon smirked. Let them sleep. Here was one Dursley they would never control. He knew the truth behind them, and he would end their sway over his family.

He resisted the urge to give a loud cackle and turned the doorknob – only to find it was stuck.

Trust that good-for-naught to destroy everything he touches.

He rattled the knob a bit, and the door opened to reveal the boy's bed in full sight, which was quite a bit larger than he remembered. He did not deserve the bed, the ungrateful waste of space.

In three strides he was standing next to the boy. His hands shot out, closing themselves around his neck. With a snarl, he hoisted him out of bed and pinned him against the wall again. Nobody would stop him this time around, no sir!

* * *

In his bedroom, Harry woke up abruptly. He had had an awful dream, of which he remembered only parts; he had been in a burnt-down wreck of a house, looking for something... and ended up being chased by _zombies,_ of all things. He rubbed his aching left wrist, which he remembered dimly had been grabbed by one of them, noticing his heart was hammering wildly in his chest. He felt as if he had really been in that place, even his legs were cramping up. This type of nightmare was quite unlike the usual kind of dreams he had, which made it all the more mind-boggling.

_It seemed so real... but it was ultimately a dream_, he told himself, opening his eyes and wiping some sweat from his face. Maybe he was just having a fever, he couldn't have been in two places at once. In an attempt to distract himself from the memories of the dream, he stared out the window.

Outside, he noticed, it was quite dark again. Had he slept all day?

Inwardly he shrugged. What difference did it make anyway if he was awake or not? He closed his eyes, with the intention to return to sleep, heaved a sigh.

There was something rattling at his door. Next thing he knew, he was face to face with Uncle Vernon, fighting for a breath of air.

"You misbegotten freak!" Vernon hissed, his face so close to Harry's his moustache tickled his cheek. His ham-like hands closed themselves tighter around Harry's neck, convulsively, as if even his fingers were itching to do him in. "You have endangered my family long enough!"

Harry gasped for breath, trying to fight his uncle, to no avail. His fat, flabby face came in and out of focus, his words came now louder, now as if from afar. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, couldn't do anything other than try and push him away, but he was as weak as a herring.

Much trampling reached his ears, confused shouting followed by the multicoloured beams of spells thrown at Vernon. The hands slackened their grip, air filled Harry's lungs at last. He looked around, saw each spell rebound as if against an invisible shield.

"Watch it, Fred, they're bouncing back!" George warned, sending a yellow beam at Vernon all the same.

Harry tried to pry himself free from his uncle's hold; the only way to get rid of the shield was if he cancelled all physical contact. He pushed again, harder, willing him to let go with all his might— uncle Vernon had lost it.

He was laughing, a manic, crazed sound the likes of which Harry would never have believed him able to produce.

"You're as good as dead, you abnormal piece of filth!"

"VERNON! WHAT _ARE_ YOU DOING?" Aunt Petunia's shriek made Vernon turn for a moment. He grinned at her.

"They can't touch me! I am invincible! Look Petunia, those freaks can't hurt us anymore!" he announced, dancing in celebration. "You—" he turned to Harry again, grabbing him by the shoulders in a vicelike grip. "You used my son as _bait_! You'll see what it is to be bait, boy—I'll take you fishing!" he cackled in glee. "You can be part of the tackle!"

Harry's eyes widened.

_It's official. He's lost it for good._

"He's gone bonkers, mate," George confirmed from somewhere to his left. All around, the din grew into pandemonium.

Petunia was shrieking on the doorway, laughing or crying, nobody could tell. Whether she was shouting at her husband or at the wizards around was lost on everyone; Fred and George kept shooting spells at Vernon, in the hopes to find a weak spot in the shield; the spells kept rebounding, hitting the furniture, the windows, the ceiling. Flowers sprouted around the light bulb in the ceiling and soon were growing, covering the walls and window, Hedwig's cage grew fangs and legs and tried to eat aunt Petunia's slippers, the bed kept bucking and bleating loudly, and the alarm clock started singing Christmas carols; Healer Tonks was pummelling away at uncle Vernon's back, shouting at him to let go of Harry; Harry was trying to pry himself free of uncle Vernon's grip, and uncle Vernon kept laughing and shouting that nobody could hurt him, and he'd be rid of all these freaks once and for all.

Amidst the confusion, stood one Dudley Dursley, his piggy little eyes taking it all in.

A spell or other ricocheted off uncle Vernon's bald pate, and he laughed again, louder than before. Harry saw it hit the light bulb, and suddenly thousands of spots of light were flying every which way, raining upon them all like bright, multicoloured water drops.

Dudley blinked, following the path of the light drops, a strange, indescribable expression in his face.

"I'll kill you, you hear?" Vernon cackled, spraying Harry with spittle. For all his laughing, his grip hadn't slackened one jot, Harry noted.

"You won't put my family in danger ever again, no sir!" In his madness however, he seemed to have forgotten to carry on strangling his nephew, who did the only thing he could: he let himself fall as if he were dead weight.

Vernon stumbled, but did not release his grip on Harry. Neither was prepared for what followed.

Completely unnoticed in the confusion – which in itself was a miracle, as Harry put it afterwards – Dudley grabbed his father's shoulder, whirled him around... and punched him in the face.

Vernon fell backwards, dragging Harry with him, his laugh dying in his throat and replaced by a loud grunt. Dudley reached out, grabbed Harry by the collar of his pyjamas and peeled him off his father, letting him fall on the bed even as Vernon backed away from him.

"They've turned you against me!" he cried, pointing an accusatory finger at his son. "Oh, Dudders, what did they do to you?"

"You've gone mental," Dudley told him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet. "Leave Harry alone."

Healer Tonks was already at Harry's side, and the Weasley twins were approaching Vernon, wands raised and identical murderous looks on their faces.

"We should have turned him into a slug when we had the chance," Fred muttered to George under his breath.

"Hot pink or purple?" George asked, smirking at Fred.

"Petunia! Did you see that?" Vernon turned to his wife next, who was busy trying to retrieve her left slipper from Hedwig's murderous cage, letting forth a string of insults to leave anyone stunned. "They've done something to him! He... he _hit_ me, Petunia!"

"WILL EVERYBODY STOP!" an imperious voice shouted from the doorway, making the floor shake.

The world stood still. The flowery jungle taking over the room stopped growing, the bed gave a last hop and stood still, and the clock's shrill rendition of "Winter Wonderland" ended in the middle of the second verse; Hedwig's cage returned a half-chewed slipper to a shaking aunt Petunia, and the rain of light drops ceased to fall.

Everyone else stopped in their tracks. All eyes turned to the speaker.

Dumbledore had returned.

"I think an explanation is in order," he told the room at large in a booming voice that held a warning for anyone who dared contradict him.

Vernon started to gibber. Petunia slid to the floor, whimpering as she straightened her slipper. Dudley blinked a few times, as if only just realising what he had done, and let go of his father's shirt. Fred and George exchanged a look, crossed their arms, and leaned against the wall with expressions that said quite plainly how much they wished having turned Vernon into a slug before the Headmaster arrived.

Harry sat up on his bed, rubbing his throat.

"What happened here?" Dumbledore inquired, fixing Vernon with a piercing stare.

"I refuse to have that... that... that absolute monstrosity of nature in my house any longer!" Vernon shouted, pointing at Harry. "I don't want him here, ever again!"

"Vernon!" Petunia gasped, seemingly torn between applauding her husband and cowering in fright.

"We have discussed the matter already, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore said calmly. "Harry needs to return once more to keep the blood protection active. This will not just keep him safe, but also yourself and your family. Surely you understand that?"

"Yes, we do," Dudley threw in, at the same time uncle Vernon snapped an angry: "I don't care, he is not welcome here!"

"Wh—what did you say, Dudders?" Vernon said, aghast. "What did those freaks do to you?"

Dudley didn't answer at once. His face was scrunched up in a grimace, and he kept staring at Dumbledore's feet. Afterwards, Harry clarified to the baffled Weasleys that his cousin always looked that way when he was thinking hard.

"He..." here Dudley jabbed a thumb in Harry's direction, "he can come back next year," he grunted at Dumbledore, much to the general amazement.

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards, but was cut off before he even began.

"You can conduct your little explanations outside, Dumbledore," Healer Tonks said firmly. "Everyone, out!" she added imperiously, pointing at the door. "Yes, that means you too," she told the cage, which followed Petunia out, snapping at her heels as everyone filed out of the room.

"Thanks, Dud," Harry said as his cousin was passing on his way out. Dudley stopped.

"I still think you're a freak," he said nastily. "This doesn't mean anything."

"And I still think you'd be able to revert world hunger, if we sent you to Africa..." Harry replied, smirking. "I bet they'd love a barbecue down there, eh, Popkin?"

Fred and George had to haul Dudley bodily out of the room.

* * *

Hundreds of miles to the north, two figures were stirring. Well, one was at least.

Connor woke up with a jolt, gasping for air.

A fat, tiny-eyed, and very angry giant beetroot with a large, bushy moustache had been throttling him... and spraying him with spit as it rattled off nonsensical accusations at him, claimed it was invincible, and called him a freak.

One hand went to his throat, which still felt as if someone were squeezing it for all they were worth, but there was nothing there. He lay there, panting, blinking in the near-complete darkness, unable to tell just where he was for a few moments. Everything was fuzzy, muddled and mixed up, the silence around him oppressing, accentuating the cold prevalent around him.

He gave his head a shake to clear it and groaned, realising a split second too late it wasn't exactly the best thing to do. Even if the bleeding had stopped, his head still seemed to consider the slightest movement to be its cue to start pounding.

He rolled onto his back with some difficulty, and concentrated on controlling his breathing while he tried to piece the images together as they seeped back to him in disconnected flashes. As he lay there on the stone floor, trying to remember just where he was and how he had gotten there, he heard a muffled groan coming from somewhere beyond his line of sight.

Raising his aching head a little, he looked around, finding himself in the hidden basement room, lying on the very spot by the fireplace he'd passed out on earlier. He could just make out a shape huddled on one of the sofas, if he strained his vision enough...

_Chris._

Everything fell into place again in the space of a breath, the puzzle revealed before his mind's eye, completely assembled. It was by no means a comfort, but did wonders to wake him up.

Shivering, he made himself sit up, which was harder than he'd anticipated, and not just because every single part of his body was stubbornly against it and seemingly ready for mutiny. His left hand was swollen like a Bludger and his fingers wouldn't move, no matter how much he strained them. It was freezing cold; he hadn't even been able to get a fire going before he blacked out.

Now the mindless, frenzied panic that had taken hold of him earlier was gone, all it left in its wake was a sense of urgency and dread, which he ignored for the moment. His every fibre was bent on getting his limbs to move and obey to his commands.

He fumbled clumsily for his wand, even though he had deep misgivings against using any sort of magic. What if that Lestrange woman was out there with a bunch of Inferi and somehow caught wind of what he was doing?

Connor swallowed dryly. Lestrange had indeed been close to catching them, and even if she was out there, he had to risk it.

He knew how to start a fire the muggle way, of course. Grams had taken them both camping for years, and being muggle-born, she had impressed the importance of knowing how to get along without magic on both her grandsons. It was her who gave them the computer, the telly, the video games. Balance, she used to say, was the secret to a harmonious relation with the non-magical world.

It had been Grams, conversely, who had taken them to almost every single major magical event there was... the Quidditch World Cup had been the last. She had loved to fly, and they had staged many a game on days off. Connor still missed her sorely; after she had had that accident, everything changed, starting with his Gramps. Then again, the whole matter with Voldemort snatching away the Potter kid that summer and regaining his body hadn't helped matters any more than a muggle bombing right at Gramps' doorstep would have done. He had become nothing short of a hermit, a paranoid one to boot, and he had dragged them both along with him.

Connor snorted, his fingers finally getting hold of his wand. His mind seemed intent on wandering into corners he usually avoided like the plague. What was it to him if Grams and Gramps were gone? They wouldn't get him out of this fix, only he could do that. And he'd better concentrate, if he wanted to make it out at all.

All it took was a muttered incineration spell, and a fire roared to life in the grate.

Turning his back on the only source of light in the room, he went to check on Chris, who was still out cold the sofa. A touch to his forehead and a glance gave him all the information he needed, and none of it was encouraging. Chris was running a fever, his lips were dry and he was as pale as a sheet, shivering in the cold. His bandages needed replacing, too.

So he set to work, emptying the bundle he had brought from home and using up nearly all its contents as he lowered the fever, changed the dressings on Chris' chest, and finally gently shook his brother awake.

Some time later, Chris was half-dozing, and in a terrible mood whenever Connor woke him up to try and eat something, drink something, or simply to check how he was doing.

"Come on mate, you need to perk up a bit," Connor prodded for the hundredth time. "We can't make the trip unless you wake up properly."

Chris responded with some barely intelligible muttering, ending with something that sounded suspiciously like, "sod off."

Hardly encouraging, that.

Connor continued prodding, until Chris cracked an eye open and graced him with a glare that told volumes. So did his first words upon looking him over for a second.

"Con, you do look like that cat we found playing dinner for the crows..."

"Oh, pack it in. As if you looked much better," Connor said, grinning anyway. Having the other finally awake was the best news he'd had in... had it really been days already?

It was very early in the morning, and he was tired as could possibly be, but Chris was finally a little more awake, and he knew he wouldn't be able to carry his brother all the way where they had to go.

"How are we getting there then?" Chris grumbled, wrapped in a marginally less torn cloak than he'd had before. It still had bits of wood and leaves sticking to it, souvenirs from Connor's trip back.

"The... the Floo network is our best shot, I think," said Connor, stoking the fire and pretending not to be terrified of the prospect of having to return to Gramps' office to use his fireplace.

That one still had been standing, last he checked.

_Best not think about that. _

"Where?" Chris squeezed out with a roll of his eyes. The fact that he was barely awake enough to speak did by no means imply his brain had stopped working.

"Here, if... if it's connected, which I think it might be. I got some Floo Powder from home," Connor answered, gesturing at the fireplace. "Otherwise, there's the grate in Gramps' office..." he cleared his throat. "But it's not really safe there, so..." he trailed off, mentally berating himself for the blatant understatement.

"Have you tried it out yet?" came the impatient question. Connor gulped and shook his head. "What are you waiting for, then? Proper planetary alignment?"

To Connor's surprise, Chris' tone, though strained, lacked any annoyance. He snorted.

"If Mars sextiles Jupiter, we have a better chance for the Floo to work, everyone knows that."

"I hope it works," Chris mumbled, watching his brother's every move. "I don't want to go back home either."

Connor nodded at him once, took out the satchel, threw a fistful of Floo Powder into the flames, and prayed to whatever deity was on call tonight that it would work.

The flames died, leaving a smouldering heap of red-hot, sputtering and crackling coals—then, just as they were both staring hopelessly at the fire, flames shot out, man-high, pleasantly warm... and bright green.

They grinned at each other.

"We're lucky sods," Chris declared, his mood considerably improved. "Who'd have thought there's been a Floo point here all this time?"

"Aye... who'd have thought?" Connor said after a moment's hesitation. He didn't really think they'd been lucky. They should have known of this place ages ago... Why did Gramps keep it from them? He was distracted, however, when the other spoke up again.

"So whereabouts are we off to? You think that this place, hidden as it's supposed to be, is plugged into the Floo network?"

_Good question. _

"Haven't the faintest. Gramps didn't mention anything about it, did he? I was thinking of the Cauldron, and... er, walking from there," Connor replied, getting ready to leave. "Can't be too far," he added bracingly, upon seeing the other's grimace.

Hoisting his brother up and holding him upright, Connor stepped closer to the flames. He just hoped Chris would survive the Floo trip. It had never been his favourite way of transportation, and for the first time, he wondered just how hard it was to make a portkey. Apparition would be handy too, come to think of it, if only they knew how.

"Tuck your elbows in, mind," Chris admonished in a wheezing voice. "We don't want you falling out of some random grate again, do we?"

Connor replied with a grunt. "That was _years_ ago, give it a rest."

"That's true, little brother," Chris gave him a sideways smirk and straightened up a little. "But I had to make sure you hadn't forgotten..."

"You know how much I hate you calling me that."

"That's why I do..." came the flippant reply. If anyone who was half dead could be flippant at all, that was Chris.

"Shut your gob, or I'll join in with the name-calling," Connor growled, adjusting the other's arm over his shoulders.

Chris gave an unmistakable snort. Connor smirked. Two could play this game.

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Red-Boot J—"

Chris poked him in the ribs and made a face at him. Connor growled something unintelligible, and moments later they stepped into the flames.

"The Leaky Cauldron," Connor said clearly, checking that their elbows were pressed as close to their bodies as possible. The last thing he saw before the basement room vanished from sight, was the other's smirk.

* * *

Harry was less than happy with his current fate. He had been moved to twelve, Grimmauld Place, which was bad enough to be going on with in his humble opinion, but the Order had, once more, gone and outdone itself.

He had been settled in none other than Sirius' old bedroom, no explanations given, except for the promise that Dumbledore would explain everything when he returned from wherever he had gone off to, which was completely insufficient, Harry thought. He had sat on the bed for a while, fingering the signet ring of the House of Black, hating its every line, every stone set in the white gold. When he grew tired of staring at his newly acquired piece of jewellery, he settled for glowering at the walls, which were bare save for the blank frame he remembered from his previous stay at Headquarters. Phineas was nowhere in sight, thankfully. His sniggering was enough to drive anyone up the wall, and Harry was well on his way to being in a dreadful mood.

He sighed, flopping back onto the bed and staring at the canopy. He'd even avoided this room when Sirius had lived here... Why in the name of all that was holy he had been stuck in the last place he'd ever want to be in, was beyond him.

His eyes trailed to the window to his left, which brought no comfort either. Outside it was pitch black, and no sounds could be heard at all. While earlier he had been sleepy and roughly as strong as a smoked kipper, the incident with uncle Vernon had done an amazing job at waking him up. Not that he felt up to much movement at the moment.

On the whole, however, he felt infinitely better, just quite sore, and rather hungry. Fed up as he was, and determined not to spend any more time in this haunted old room than he absolutely had to, Harry rose from bed and threw on a bathrobe that had been placed on a nearby chair. Letting the signet ring fall into his bathrobe pocket next to his wand, he stood a little unsteadily.

He'd go to the kitchen and have something to eat, he resolved, and to judge by the rumbling of his stomach, it couldn't have agreed more with his chosen course of action.

The way to the kitchen from his fourth storey room was long... and positively slow going. Harry had to lean heavily on the banisters and railings, and take many rests along the way. He reached the bottom of the kitchen stairs, sweating as if he'd run all the way from Hagrid's hut to the Gryffindor Common room, and stopped to catch his breath for a bit before entering the kitchen, the door to which was slightly ajar.

It was, perhaps, a good thing to happen.

From where he stood, he could hear familiar voices talking. One of them, which he recognised as belonging to Mrs. Weasley, sounded choked as she spoke.

"Oh darling, I'm so s-s-sorry," she was saying. "I-I never thought... I never thought he'd go after Rob..."

Frowning, Harry inched closer and peered through the gap. He'd never heard of a Rob, but apparently something had happened to him. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley kneeling side by side in front of the fireplace, much like Sirius and Professor Lupin had once done. Bill was crouching next to them, as if ready to jump into the fire himself.

"What happened, mum?" Harry knew that one voice as well. It was Charlie, most likely talking through the fire. By the tone he was using, he hadn't expected this news at all. Harry's eyes were fixed on Bill, however. He hadn't seen him except for a few minutes after he and the twins returned from looking for him, and he looked older than ever. His face was ashen, drawn as he stared into the fire with an intensity Harry had never seen on any Weasley before.

Harry did not move, ignoring the increasingly loud voice in his head telling him, with equally increasing harshness, to return to Sirius' old bedroom. The last thing he needed was to be caught eavesdropping to what was clearly a conversation of the most private sort.

He heard Bill's account of what had happened in Inverarray and after, when the Order had found McAlpin's house. Voldemort had left none alive, and amongst the victims, the Order had identified Rob, who, it transpired, had been a close friend of Charlie's.

"He's... he's _dead_?" Charlie whispered, so low Harry almost did not catch any of the words. He sounded gob smacked.

Bill hung his head.

"There... is a team of Hit Wizards at the McAlpin estate now, Charlie. Rob... everyone there... they were... he was turned into an Inferius. They're trying to contain them, and they will... try to send his body to the family once they have... cancelled the spells." His words were met with complete silence.

"Scrimgeour assured me he would let us know when the funeral can be arranged," he finished, sticking an arm into the flames, probably to place a hand on Charlie's shoulder.

_Inferius?_

Harry had never heard the term before. Whatever it was, it could be anything but good, if it was linked even remotely to Voldemort. Harry felt a cold chill running down his spine, and suppressed a shudder. Deciding it would be appropriate to return to Sirius' room, he took a careful step back. The Weasleys were talking to Charlie still, they wouldn't notice...

"... Ron and Ginny?"

Harry froze for a split second, then returned to his previous spot, listening hard. He hadn't heard of his friends for what felt like ages.

"I'll tell them Harry is back," Charlie was saying gruffly. "They've been having kittens over him... Do you think he'll make a full recovery?"

"I hope so," came Healer Tonks' voice from somewhere at the back of the kitchen, accompanied by the chink of china placed upon the table. "With some luck, he'll be as right as ever in a few days."

"That will cheer them up," Charlie replied. "They have been impossible, begging me to let them go home every minute of the day. Hermione will also appreciate the news," he added, a little more lightly. "Harry's owl reached her without a letter, and she has been fire calling every day..." Harry's heart leapt. Hedwig was all right, and so were his friends. The half-smile that was creeping onto his face disappeared at Charlie's next words, though.

"At least I can give them a bit of... of good news, eh?"

Harry had heard enough. He backed off again, climbing the stairs to the entrance hall as quietly as he had come, partly glad for hearing of his friends and Hedwig at last, but mostly feeling more miserable than ever. There he was, angry because he was stuck in Sirius' old room, while everyone had been handling things the best they could. His friends, as everyone else, had been worried about him, in addition to the losses he could have prevented... if only he had read the signs correctly.

Immersed as he was in his own thoughts, he forgot all about the bottom step from the entrance hall... the loud screech following the slight creak of the wood jolted him back to reality.

"MUUUUUDBLOOOODS! TRAITORS! SCUM!" went the portrait of Mrs. Black, the ancient, moth-eaten curtains billowing up as if moved by a strong wind, to reveal her yellowish, sickly face as she pointed accusatorily at Harry, who stopped dead in his tracks.

"YOU HAVE NO RIGHT! YOU ARE NOT WORTHY! YOU LITTLE BAS—"

"Shut up!" Harry snapped, glaring at the portrait. "Just... shut up!"

To his complete surprise, Mrs. Black obeyed. She was still glaring daggers at him, to be sure, and pulling a face that suggested she'd been given a glass of vinegar to drink, but ultimately silent. Not believing his eyes (or ears), Harry approached the portrait.

"What are you doing up?" came a stern voice behind him. Healer Tonks and the Weasleys had come up, to check what had caused the racket, and for one, the Healer did not sound too pleased.

"I... wanted something to eat," Harry said lamely, "I... stumbled and the portrait went off and..." He trailed off as he saw Healer Tonks' expression. She looked roughly as angry as the portrait.

"You are in no condition to be hopping around the house, Potter," she snapped, flicking her wand at him. Instantly, Harry found himself floating on a stretcher, a few feet aboveground. "If you need anything you use the bell I left you, now let's get you back to bed where you belong."

"But I..." Harry started to protest, to no avail. He hadn't been hopping, had he?

Healer Tonks would have none of his explanations. She levitated him all the way back to Sirius' room, berating him all the while the trip lasted. Once in the room, she tucked him in, muttering about how irresponsible he had been, as if walking down a few sets of stairs were as dangerous as poking an Erumpent in the eye. She, like Madam Pomfrey, turned a deaf ear to his protests, and left in an impressive huff.

Mrs. Weasley arrived shortly after, bearing a tray with soup and tea for him, but she was sniffling continually and said nothing to him except a rather constipated, "Good night, Harry dear."

Feeling rather put out by the childlike treatment he had just received, Harry grudgingly ate his soup, drifting off shortly after to dreams of dragon riders, burning houses and zombies.

* * *

The alarm had gone off loudly, filling the empty tavern with sparks of every colour imaginable.

For a split second, both boys did not move. Who'd have thought there'd be a Floo alarm on the fireplace? Connor raffled himself up, casting a quick obliteration charm to erase their footprints as he tried to spot the way out amidst the sparks.

It was like trying to walk right through a set of fireworks.

Chris actually chuckled at their awful luck, allowing Connor to drag him out at a sprint, which thankfully was short-lived; Neither had the energy to go very far.

They both watched from the shelter of a nearby alleyway ("Your favourite hiding spots, eh?" Chris had commented before Connor covered his mouth with a hand), as a team of Aurors in bright red robes apparated across the street, even as nearly every light in the Leaky Cauldron went on and a babble of confused, scared-sounding voices carried from within. One of the leading Aurors, a tall, bald man with an earring, started giving instructions in a loud voice, amidst the gunshot sounds of even more Aurors apparating, and both boys retreated further into the shadows.

"Death Eaters! It's them!" someone shouted from inside, and the Aurors filed into the Leaky Cauldron, wands raised and ready to strike. Connor let out a breath.

"That," Chris muttered, looking meaningfully at Connor, "was effin' close."

"Yeah..."

"D'you think there are really Death Eaters in there?"

"No idea." Connor did pointedly not want to find out. He slung the other's arm over his shoulder, wand in hand. "For all we know, those Aurors could be. C'mon, let's get cracking."

"How about we take a taxi?" Chris suggested with a groan.

"Have you seen what muggles charge for a taxi, especially at this time of night?"

"Aye, dreadful rates. 'Tis nothing short of highway robbery."

"Not to mention the risk of getting mugged."

"All right then," Chris conceded at last with a wan smile. "You're right. Muggers are ruthless... and oh, so dangerous... especially muggle ones..."

Finding their way across the deserted London streets was not at all easy, as Connor soon found out. They hid whenever they heard the slightest noise, be it the fluttering of a bird or a passing car, setting off again as soon as Connor had established it was safe; Chris was tiring fast, and of little help whatsoever.

Connor's watch chimed four o'clock in the morning as they passed a public garden Connor thought to be the Meat Market, and he sank down on the sidewalk, wondering just where they had to go from here. Dawn was already breaking, and they were utterly lost, not to mention exhausted.

Chris was leaning on him, breathing heavily, the front of his robes wet with fresh blood. Connor checked him over, heart sinking.

_Merlin's balls, not now..._

"Oy..." Chris wheezed, "is this the Meat Market?"

"I think so, yeah..." Connor replied, ripping his shirt to shreds and pressing it against the other's chest.

"They used to burn witches here, dinney?"

"Yeah, probably..." Connor tried to pull the other to his feet. He needed a Healer, and fast.

"'Tis a his...torical... site, y'know..."

"Uh-huh. Can you stand?"

"Look," Chris said, looking at a plaque on the wall behind them, "they killed Will—"

"Come on, we need to get away from here—" He heaved once more, hauling the other to unsteady feet. "You'll get to go sight-seeing some other time, I promise," he muttered with a roll of his eyes.

_It's the lack of blood_, he told himself. _The sodding lack of blood_.

"But it's... where they... they quartered William Wallace..." the other whined, gasping as he was set into motion again. "We need to pay our respects, you know... Ssssir..." he trailed off in a slur.

Connor walked as fast as he could, thinking hard. If he used magic here, it would be nothing short of a beacon that would draw other wizards to where they were... if he didn't, things would not look well at all for Chris. What he needed... was a secluded spot where they could rest for a bit, unseen.

"Here, I think nobody will look for us over there, c'mon..." Connor had spotted an old-looking building that had an open gate. From a long-past visit in what now seemed another lifetime, he remembered the City of London was all but made of these little courtyards, and this one seemed perfect for a hiding place. A plaque at the entrance told him there was a church there, and that all but guaranteed an absolute lack of people.

He coaxed the other's limbs to move, and after what seemed ages, made it across the gateway, into a path that passed between two raised gardens. He barely had time to let out a relieved breath before the sight he beheld made him freeze again.

They were standing amidst a cold, silvery mass that was moving towards them.

* * *

He had been dragging someone along dark streets and rows, hiding in shadows whenever he heard the telltale sounds of people approaching. That someone kept stumbling, and he had to stop several times to stop the bleeding in his chest. Harry had made a break for it, all but carrying the other boy through the streets of London, and hid in the courtyard of the darkest church he had ever laid eyes on, which was surrounded by raised gardens filled to the brim with ghosts. He'd tried to get directions from them, but that leper bloke's ghost had been less than friendly.

It had been an awful dream, really.

Harry then decided he'd slept enough, thank you very much. But staying in Sirius' old bedroom was also more than he could stand.

So he ventured out once more. This time around, the trip downstairs did not take quite as long as the first, and he decided to take a breather in the entrance hall. From the kitchen voices rose, slightly muffled due to the closed door.

_Don't these people ever sleep?_ Harry wondered in annoyance, his chance for a cup of tea gone and done with. His stomach protested in unison with his thoughts, but his sense of self-preservation won out.

"There was more than one," Hestia was saying, "they floo'd in from an unidentified grate and disappeared into muggle London." She sighed. "We have secured all magical households in case they are aiming to attack, but... but why would Death Eaters use the Leaky Cauldron grates to go to muggle London, of all places?"

"It would indeed make more sense if they had been headed for Diagon Alley," a raspy voice agreed, and Harry involuntarily took a step back. Mad-Eye was there, and he wasn't keen on being told off by the grizzled ex-Auror any more than he wanted to face Healer Tonks again tonight. So he settled for reading in the sitting room, which was located to the left from the entrance hall. Shooting a warning glare at the portrait of Sirius' mum, he crossed to the nearest armchair and opened his book.

Afterwards he could not tell how long he had been reading, but the next thing he knew was that someone had reached the front door. The old hag on the wall went off almost immediately afterwards, screeching and shrieking for all it was worth, as if confirming Harry's thoughts.

"Sons of filth, besmirching the house of my fathers, begone from this place—"

Harry groaned, distracted from the diagrams showing the casting of a window darkening spell, which he supposed was what the Order had used in Mrs. Figg's house back when the Death Eaters had attacked him in Wisteria Walk.

"Now what?" he asked aloud, shutting his book with a snap, which, just like his words, was drowned in the din Mrs. Black was making. Again.

He swung his feet from the armrest of the armchair he had been using, and stood up with some difficulty, tossing the book aside as he stepped out into the entrance hall.

"—Misbegotten fiends of lesser blood, you are not welcome here—"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you, you stupid old hag," Harry muttered, adjusting his bathrobe as he went. He hadn't heard the door, but it was all probably lost in the screeching anyway.

Of course, he wasn't _allowed_ to go anywhere near the door. Someone else would get it; he just wanted for that horrid portrait to shut up once and for all.

"I told you already to shut it," he said loudly, glaring at the portrait. "Nobody here gives a damn for your screeching, so eff up already."

"Stains of dishonour! Half-breeds!" she screeched, if possible, even louder than before, her yellowish face contorted in an ugly grimace, lolling her tongue at Harry and drooling from her widely open mouth. It made Harry's head pound.

"Cut it out!" he shouted, sticking his hand in his pocket to draw his wand... but his fingers brushed against something else.

He held the signet ring of the House of Black aloft, turned it so the portrait could see it clearly. Mrs. Black's eyes went wide as saucers.

"NOOOO! My house, my heirlooms, gone to the mudblood's son! YOU-HAVE-NO-RIGHT!" This was the absolute opposite of what Harry had expected.

"Shut up!" he shouted, and to his utmost surprise... the portrait complied again. Harry dropped the ring back in his pocket, taking a relieved breath.

Behind him, someone gave a laugh.

Bill and Tonks had come upstairs, to get the door, no doubt. Harry nodded at them, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"How did you do that, Harry?" Bill asked, grinning slightly. Harry just shrugged.

"What got her off this time?" Tonks wanted to know, smirking at Mrs. Black and pulling a face at her.

"There's someone at the door," Harry replied, closing the curtains over the portrait.

"We didn't hear anything," Tonks said with a frown, approaching the door at once.

"Harry, go to bed. It's almost five in the morning," Bill instructed, pulling him back and towards the stairs.

"There's someone at the door," Harry insisted.

"There's been nothing to suggest that," Tonks argued, peering through the peep hole, her wand raised and at the ready. "Go to bed, Harry."

"We'll check if there's someone out, but you shouldn't even be here, Harry. _Go to bed_."

Harry hesitated for a moment, but in the end he acknowledged defeat and turned to go back upstairs.

There was a faint knock on the door. At once, Bill stepped in front of Harry while Tonks went to the door. She exchanged a look with Bill and opened the door wide, aiming her wand right between the newcomers' eyes. Harry peered around Bill's elbow... and stared.

It hadn't been a dream.

At the doorstep were two boys, roughly his age or younger. Both had windswept, matted black hair, pale, dirty faces and the one who was speaking had eyes so pale they seemed to glow ghostly silver in the light of the corridor lamps inside. He seemed not at all bothered by the fact three wands were pointed straight at him, if he had noticed at all. He was holding the second one, who seemed unconscious, pressing something against his chest.

"Please," he said urgently in a strained voice that struck Harry as entirely too familiar; he had heard it before, coming from his own mouth.

"Please... I can't stop the bleeding."

* * *

TBC.

A/N: Right, another chapter done. Reviews are much appreciated, especially if you've made it this far.

I hope to finish chapter 18 a couple of weeks from now, where some things will be explained, some other points will be raised, we'll see old Marv again, as well as Rasmus whom you all miss, I'm sure, Harry and the McAlpin twins meet at last, and there will be some blood and gore as a side dish, I believe.

DND


	18. Hiding in Grim Old Places

**Disclaimer: **As you'll probably have noticed, I'm not JK Rowling, and boy am I happy about it. I do, however, enjoy toying about in her playground, something which I should definitely do more often. Whatever you recognise from other fan fiction or storylines is purely coincidental and not intentionally copied, but if you point out the coinkidinks, I'll duly credit. Canon characters, settings and the general wizarding world belong to JK Rowling and whoever she's sold the rights to the HP-verse to, everything you do not recognise from elsewhere has sprung from mine hollow head. I do not, and don't believe I ever will, perceive any sort of monetary compensation for my fan fiction writing. It is, conversely, one of the most satisfying things I've ever done. Howlers welcome, reviews even more so.

**DND.**

**To everyone who has endured this long wait, and hasn't given up on this fic. Thanks a ton to you all!**

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**The Time of the Turning, Chapter 18**

**Hiding in Grim Old Places**

The Department of Mysteries was all but deserted at this hour of night. Albus Dumbledore strode into the Death Chamber, his footsteps echoing in the empty room; three Unspeakables guarded the circular access room, and some Aurors of a new special squad were posted in the different chambers, all part of a contingency plan that had been but one part of the host of changes in the Ministry after the battle that had taken place there. It had taken Dumbledore almost two hours to get the clearance to visit the Death Chamber unaccompanied, but it seemed well worth the effort: someone he had needed to see for almost two years was sitting on the dais, the veil fluttering slightly in an unseen wind behind him.

"Angus," Dumbledore said from the top of the amphitheatre. The silvery figure looked up from its pipe, and after a few long moments of careful examination, nodded once at him. Dumbledore approached, pulling out a sherbet lemon. Now he was closer, he could see his old school friend much better; the silvery outline gave way to colour, it was almost like seeing a live being, except for the faint glow emanating from the wizard.

"I see you received my letter," old McAlpin said, his tone businesslike.

"I did, a few hours ago." Dumbledore took a second sherbet lemon from his robes pockets, eyes downcast. "Angus, I am eternally sorry—"

"None of that," McAlpin muttered harshly, waving a dismissive hand at Dumbledore, his distinctive Scottish accent even more marked than he remembered. "Spare me your excuses, Albus, we both know there's precious little time to waste on explaining what you should have done and why you did not do it."

Dumbledore sighed. It would be a long meeting. It already felt as if he had been standing here for hours, when in truth only a few minutes had passed. McAlpin however, went on, puffing on his pipe thoughtfully.

"It was Voldemort, accompanied by such a force I had trouble believing it at first. Rasmus Thanatovich was with him. But of course you knew that already." His pale green eyes fixed themselves on Dumbledore's, assessing, knowing. "It is another matter I wish to discuss with you, otherwise I would not have bothered summoning you here at all, as you no doubt can tell."

Dumbledore took the scroll from his pocket with a sigh. He had hoped McAlpin would be but a slight more condescending.

He had no such luck.

"I was indeed wondering what the meaning of this was," he agreed, giving Angus a questioning look. Angus proffered a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Only he could make such a gesture look grave, Dumbledore realised, and waited for the old wizard to speak.

"It is a prophecy, a complement to the one you—and your _ward—_protected ever so _skilfully_," came the reply. Dumbledore did not dwell on the sarcasm coating McAlpin's words.

"Why did you not tell me of it before?" he asked instead, urgently. This could have unforeseen consequences, for all.

"Because you would have botched it up, just like you did with the first," McAlpin replied, his tone nonchalant, as if he were commenting on the weather.

"Some things are beyond our control, Angus," Dumbledore retorted, earning himself another dismissive hand gesture.

"You, Albus, trust too much. Be it in other people, or the fates," said McAlpin. His face was now grave, his eyes reproachful.

"About this prophecy..." Dumbledore turned to the parchment once more. Whether he was doing this out of genuine interest or simply to forestall a sermon, was hard to tell.

"The meaning of it shall be clear in due time," was the enigmatic answer. "It is not in me to tell you what it is, for I do not know myself—not for certain. And instead of _speculating_, which is your favourite pastime, it seems, I would rather have hard facts to back it up. Speak of it with only people of your full confidence, which in itself is a great risk—you have, after all, placed it in all the wrong places before."

"If you mean Severus, I would trust him with my life."

"Aye, that's what concerns me." McAlpin shook his head ruefully. The subject of Severus Snape had been the reason for the breach of their friendship, and McAlpin had nothing more to add to the matter. "Be it as it may, it is regretfully, I must say, your own decision to see whose counsel you seek. _Keep this one safe,_ Albus, and the answers shall come to you in due time."

"Will you never trust me again, Angus?" Dumbledore's tone was now one of deep regret, and he meant every word. So, sadly, did McAlpin.

"My trust is irrelevant, and the least of your worries, particularly now." McAlpin raised his shaggy eyebrows, lighting his pipe again with a snap of his fingers. "You hesitate in acting, and you have made enough mistakes already, the consequences of which I do not even wish to _begin_ to contemplate. I wouldn't want to be in your boots right now, Albus."

"I have acted in the best interest of—" he was cut off by another impatient wave.

"The greater good, yes, yes, I've heard it all before." Once more, pale green eyes fixed themselves on blue. "I hate to say I told you so, but I _did_ warn you. Repeatedly."

Dumbledore braced himself for the impending earful he was about to receive. And sure enough, McAlpin paused minutely before plunging on.

"You should have set Black free when I told you to do so, the Potter boy should have gone to me instead of those muggles, as was the Potters' wish. The day you took my given right from me, decided upon Black's fate, and ultimately, young Potter's, you made it_ quite _clearwhat you thought of the 'greater good', Albus. As I said, I do not wish to discuss your considerable lack of judgement, but, well, to request something of you now I am here." He gestured at the fluttering veil. "Or back there, if you will. I am unable to see to this matter myself, as you surely will understand."

_A request? _

This was most unusual, particularly since Angus and his entire family were gone now. Dumbledore frowned slightly.

"I have two pupils, or should I say, I _used_ to have two pupils? No matter, either way they shall need your aid, for evident reasons," here McAlpin gestured at himself, ignoring the nonplussed look he was getting from Dumbledore. Which was likely a first occurrence, at least in the past handful of decades.

"Pupils?" Dumbledore echoed. He had not known Angus had taken in apprentices, and said as much.

"The amount of things you are not aware of could fill several libraries, Albus," McAlpin muttered, leaning back and regarding Dumbledore with disappointment. "The one-eyed man may be king in the kingdom of the blind," he stated, "but he still lacks one eye."

Dumbledore said nothing.

"I _did_ have two pupils, and to judge by the fact they are not in there with almost all my remaining family, I believe they are on their way to see you. I need you to take them in and protect them."

"Do you mean to say, someone escaped the raid?"

"I am fully confident those two will have." A self-satisfied smile. Dumbledore's face fell, however.

"The Aurors, the Order... we found no one alive, Angus. No signs of anyone escaping, either."

"And my lads would not have shown themselves to either party had they been there, Albus. They escaped, I am _certain_ of it."

"I shall do everything in my power to help them, then," Dumbledore replied gravely, although the tone of his voice betrayed his misgivings. "Where do I find them?"

"_You_?" McAlpin's laugh rang loud and clear across the empty chamber, earnestly amused. "What makes you think you _could_ find them if you tried? No, they will find _you_, Albus, I don't believe I asked you to _search_ for them. In fact," he went on, "I would not be surprised if they were knocking on your front door already. Their methods are not the conventional ones, you could say. All I ask is you help them, keep them safe from Voldemort until they are ready to stand on their own, and don't try to shape them as you're doing – or should I say, _not_ doing – with the one you claimed as your own to raise."

Dumbledore lowered his eyes once more, averting his sight from his one-time school friend's keen, penetrating gaze.

_Where did we go astray, Angus, that we cannot talk but from opposite sides of this self-imposed Hadrian's wall? _he mused ruefully, examining his third sherbet lemon mournfully before popping it in his mouth. The sweetness of it was quite insufficient, as he began to attempt an explanation.

"I am aware my decisions have not been the best, or might not seem as such at present," he started, "but they were nevertheless mine to make, Angus."

"Not from where I am sitting," was the reply. "There are some people back in there who are most unhappy with the way you have handled things, and some issues have quite recently come to light that are most... ah, _upsetting_ for us all."

"Tell Sirius, James and Lily—"

"I'm not your errand boy, Dumbledore," McAlpin snapped, his voice suddenly harsh with anger. "You can come here talk to them whenever you please, although I am not certain _they_ will consent to talk to you, especially since Black rendered his own report a mere few weeks ago, and I cleared a few parts up myself. After all, why you haven't come here but the once in fifteen years was clear to me before. And now, it is clear to them as well." He paused. "You have made them very angry, Albus, and yet... you _do_ owe them an explanation."

"You are right, but you do not know the whole story, the underlying reasons are—"

"Ah, but _you_ do. _Now_ you do. Or rather, given some time, you _might_ know it all, you might understand..."

_And Merlin be with you when you realise what you have done._

Angus turned his attention to his pipe, indicating the conversation to be over, the statement hanging in the air like an anvil over Dumbledore's head. The silence stretched, ringing, penetrating, for the space of several eternally long moments.

"I have a question, Angus."

"Fire away." McAlpin looked up from his pipe, mildly interested. Dumbledore hesitated for a moment.

"How much do you know about Soul-Splitting?"

"Enough."

"Could I steal a few moments of your time, then?"

"I have an eternity Albus," said McAlpin, chuckling. "What is it that you need to know so badly?"

* * *

"_Please... I can't stop the bleeding." _

Harry lowered his wand, gaping openly at the boys, even as Bill called for Moody, his own wand steadily aimed between the eyes of the one who had spoken. Tonks mimicked Bill's movements, while looking out the door for any potential attackers.

"Bill, let them in," Harry said urgently, his eyes fixed upon the unconscious-looking boy. For a fleeting moment, he met the other's eyes, and a jolt of energy coursed through him. It was a split second only, but for that period of time, it was as if time stood still, and he were looking at an old friend, someone he _knew_ as well as he did himself. Harry blinked. The boy looked away.

The connection broke.

Bill and Tonks hesitated.

"Could be a trap, Harry." Bill's voice was curt, almost unfeeling. Harry turned to look at him in disbelief.

"They're _hurt_," he said, temper rising. "_Let them in. Now._" He _knew_ that the boys were no threat, but _how_ he knew was beyond him. It was also something he was not about to analyse now. Unless the boys were seen by a Healer soon, they'd die. The unconscious one would, at any rate. He'd _seen_ what had been done to him after all, hadn't he?

Mad-Eye Moody clunked hurriedly up the kitchen stairs, his wand already out and aiming at the newcomers.

"Potter, get out of the way," he barked, already holding the boys at wandpoint. What happened next confused Harry to no end.

"_Professor_!" the boy gasped, looking _relieved_ to see Moody, of all things.

"I can't stop the bleeding, sir," he went on in the same urgent, strained tone he'd been using so far. "He needs—"

"Who are you?" Moody barked imperiously, cutting the boy off. "How did you get here?"

The boy froze for a second, as if he had not expected this turn of events at all. He gave Moody a look of what would have been exasperation had he not been so worn out.

"We _walked_," he said shortly, looking down and adjusting the bleeding form of his brother against his chest. "Nobody followed us, all right? Just—just get some help for him, I'll answer whatever questions you have, I'll do what... whatever you want." The boy looked intently at Mad-Eye, his voice cracking. "_Please_. He's dying."

Mad-Eye regarded the boys impassively.

"How did you know how to get here?" he snapped, his magical eye darting every which way, looking for other enemies and finding none.

Harry darted forward, starting to protest, but Bill held him back, muttering something he didn't quite listen to, but which sounded somewhat like: "He knows what he's doing, let it go."

His eyes boring into Mad-Eye's, the boy reached deliberately slowly into his pocket, and, ignoring Mad-Eye's threatening growl of, "Watch it boy!", withdrew a pair of identical black wands from it, tossing them at the old wizard with a pointed look. He then held up a scrap of bloodstained, filthy parchment.

"Only we can read it, Professor," he said, his breath heavy. "But it says, 'The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.' Which is _here_, if I'm not mistaken." He gave Moody a pointed look, teeth gritted, in impatience or pain, Harry couldn't tell. "Will you help him _now_?" He turned his attention to his unconscious twin, shaking him slightly and muttering into his ear.

At the mention of the Order's address, Bill muttered an oath under his breath and let go of Harry, leaving for the kitchen at a sprint.

"I don't recall ever seeing you, let alone teaching you, so stop calling me that." Moody interrupted his examination of the boys' wands and summoned the piece of parchment to him, even as Bill called loudly for Healer Tonks in the background. "Who gave you this?"

"My grandfather, Angus McAlpin," was the reply. "Dumbledore gave it to him early last summer."

"He should have burned it," Mad-Eye growled.

"Well it's a good thing he didn't, isn't it?" the boy snapped back, glaring at the old ex-Auror, clearly desperate. "Or are you saying we should not even have bothered coming all the way here? He thought you'd help us, but if you won't, then—"

At this point, Healer Tonks arrived at a run, pushing Harry aside as she passed him. It took her next to no time to assess the situation.

"This boy needs help, Alastor," she snapped, pushing past him as well. "Move aside."

"Healer _Tonks_?" the boy croaked in disbelief, as Tonks helped her carry the other inside. He looked ready to laugh, or kiss her, or both. Fortunately he did none of these things, but relinquished his hold on the other boy so she could look him over.

"Do I know you?" Healer Tonks asked sharply, gracing the boy with a minute glance, at the same time Mad-Eye barked, "You know her?" from right behind. Even despite the sudden confusion, he had not stopped aiming his wand at the newcomers.

"Yeah, she was Grams' Healer..." the boy muttered, weakly pulling himself up along the doorframe. He glanced at Mad-Eye, shook his head a little, as if to clear it, then gave him a dismissive, tired wave. "You know what? Never mind."

All along the entrance hallway, a commotion had broken out. Mrs. Weasley was hurrying up the stairs after Tonks and her mum, a series of bags and stacks of clean linen floating in her wake. Confused shouting rent the air, reverberating across the house as everyone –minus Mrs. Black's portrait—gave orders, or offered to get something or other for Healer Tonks' newest patient. Harry shrank back into the wall as Bill ran past him, told Mad-Eye something he couldn't quite catch, then hurried outside, Fred and George in tow. Harry caught a glimpse of them obliterating the trail of blood the boys had left behind before the door closed behind them.

He was just wondering what to do with himself, when he saw the other boy sliding down the wall onto a sitting position, burying his head in his right hand. His left, Harry noticed, was held against his chest, looking rather purplish and swollen. He felt a sympathetic twinge on his own wrist.

"Not so fast, you." Mad-Eye's gnarled hand closed itself over the boy's arm, hoisting him up and ignoring the wince this movement elicited. "You have a lot to explain."

"_Alastor_! What are you doing to that child?"

The stern shout made Moody stop mid-movement and Harry flinch involuntarily. Where McGonagall had come from was clear to Harry when she started brushing soot off her green tartan robes, and the reason for her arrival was also made obvious when Madam Pomfrey emerged from the kitchen next, hurrying to the first-floor room Healer Tonks was occupying now.

"He could be a potential Death Eater!" Mad-Eye barked at the same time the boy raised his head and snapped, "Watch who you're calling that, madam," in entirely too similar a tone to that of the Ex-Auror's.

McGonagall's lips went as thin as Harry had ever seen them, and her tones were clipped when she yanked the boy from Mad-Eye's grip, placing a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. He wobbled a little, but held fast.

"It is _still_ just a ch—a youngster, Alastor. You might want to revise your methods," she retorted firmly. "This is not Auror Headquarters or your interrogation chamber, in case you haven't noticed, and we are not stooping so low as to resort to caveman practices here."

She led the boy all the way to the kitchen, a grumbling Moody clunking behind her. Harry trailed after them, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. He took a seat at the back of the room, while McGonagall conjured some tea and glared at Mad-Eye before pushing the steaming cup at the boy.

"Drink," McGonagall said shortly, but her voice was not unkind. "You look like you need it."

The boy snorted and pushed the cup away.

"Cheers, but I'd rather not be poisoned right now."

"You do look parched," she insisted, frowning.

"I need to speak to Dumbledore first," was the flat reply.

McGonagall looked like she was going to argue back for a moment, but sat down with crossed arms instead. Harry did not miss the appreciative look Moody gave the boy before starting a systematic interrogation.

The boy, who introduced himself as Connor McAlpin, described the events of the last few days in an increasingly croaky voice. Harry listened attentively, confirming most of the things he'd dreamt of. Connor however, did not go into great detail about the tunnels he'd found, and became rather vague about other things as well, Harry noted.

He was summarising his tale in such a way as to appease Moody without giving out any information that could be useful later. His explanations were simple, straightforward, and not a little detached. His voice, although croaky, was steady, stating fact after fact in a quite efficient manner that forestalled most obvious questions.

For his part, Harry stared at the boy, eyes roving over every feature, every bit of mud and dried blood on his robes. He had the distinct feeling he'd seen him before, and not in a dream or vision, either. He wasn't one of the Hogwarts students—Harry was certain he'd remember _that_ face—but then, where had he seen him before?

"... and when I went back to the house, it was full of Inferi. I managed to get a hold of some Floo powder, though, that's how we left." Connor ended his short account, sniffing the cold tea suspiciously before taking a sip at last. He looked spent, and Harry just _knew_ that he would gladly fall asleep where he sat if it weren't for the mistrust he had in the people sitting around him.

"Inferi?" Upon hearing this term once more, Harry leaned forward to whisper to Tonks, who had been kicked out of the room that had been turned into an impromptu hospital area, after tipping over a basin full of hot water. She too seemed to be trying to blend in with the scenery, which was made rather difficult given that her hair was some neon shade of red.

"Sort of like zombies," she whispered back. Harry swallowed, an image he'd thought to be from a dream popping before his mind's eye, dragging itself towards him as he backed away against a window.

"How did you find your way across London?" Mad-Eye asked. His tone, more than snappish, was intrigued now. Harry felt he knew the answer to that one, too.

"We arrived at the Leaky Cauldron by Floo, sir. Then we walked... got lost."

Mad-Eye narrowed his normal eye.

"We heard of a disturbance there earlier in the night. Was that you?" he asked with a growl.

Connor nodded tiredly, "We didn't know there was an alarm... triggered it."

"Why not seek out the help of the Aurors?" This question seemed to amuse Connor. He gave Moody a wry, lopsided smirk.

"Because we can't check their forearms for interesting tattoos," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Harry had the feeling that for him at least, it was.

At this point, Mrs. Weasley returned to the kitchen, to get some more boiling water. Connor almost leapt to his feet, as if his previous tiredness had not been there at all.

"How is he doing, madam?" he asked, apprehensive.

"Healer Tonks is doing her best—oh, but you do look terrible too, we need to get you looked at as well," Mrs. Weasley said, looking him up and down appraisingly. He did look awful, Harry realised with a pang; not all the blood on him belonged to his brother, that was clear.

"I can wait," said Connor earnestly, "just fix him up first."

"What happened to him, exactly?"

"Death Eaters... they... they... one of them hit him with this purple curse... I don't really know the name of it." Connor replied distractedly, for the first time showing some signs of distress as he slumped back in his chair. "He's been...been bleeding like mad for the longest time. I didn't know if he'd make it all the way here." He swallowed. "I tried to... to stop it, but... it didn't really work."

"Why didn't you take him to St. Mungo's then?" Moody shot the question at Connor, towering over him in a way that was quite intimidating. Mrs. Weasley, who had been in the process of saying something to comfort the boy, gave an exasperated huff and bustled out.

To Harry's surprise, Connor gave out a chuckle.

"What, after the Bode incident earlier this year?" he scoffed, fixing his eyes on the scrubbed table. "Do you honestly believe we'd have survived more than one night in that place?"

Mad-Eye slammed a hand on the tabletop, making everyone jump about a foot in the air. Connor did not budge, or indeed seem surprised by this behaviour at all. His eyes moved from Moody's hand on the table to his scarred face, and it seemed to Harry as if he were suppressing a smile. When he spoke, however, he measured every word; his tone, though strained, was controlled.

"I was going to... I was going to risk taking him there if we were turned out from here, but... well, St Mungo's is quite a bit farther away and I do not carry tube tickets, sir."

"What about the Knight Bus? Surely you have heard of this method of transportation?"

Connor rolled his eyes.

"Right. One of the conductors was recently imprisoned for being a Death Eater. We do _did_ read the papers back home, you know. And," he added, "the driver is a menace on wheels." He paused for a moment.

"Sir," he said, his eyes boring into Mad-Eye's own with an intensity that startled the old wizard, "I was told to come _here_ for help, not St. Mungo's, or the Ministry, or _anywhere_ else. If we had had some other alternative, _any_ other—believe me, you wouldn't even _know_ we exist at all."

Moody stared at the boy sitting in front of him as if he had grown fangs, horns, and scales. A rather harassed-looking Healer Tonks picked this moment to come into the room, summoning herself a drink and surveying the scene around her. Her eyes fell on Harry, who was sitting quietly in his corner.

"What are _you_ doing down _here _again?" She bore down on him, and Harry instinctively recoiled from her.

"_You_," she snapped at Harry, poking him on the shoulder, "should be in bed. I'll be up in your room in five minutes, and if you're not lying down as I told you to, it won't be You-Know-Who you'll have to worry about."

"Yeah, yeah, you'll be happy if I'm in a bloody coma when you come by, I get it," Harry muttered, angry at being told off in front of everyone. Tonks snorted, but Connor ignored him completely, in the same way he had so far.

"As for you," she turned to Moody with an expression that reminded Harry of his Hungarian Horntail in the Triwizard Tournament, "you can carry on with your little '_interrogation_' to-do later. I need to check this one here over."

"I haven't finished yet!" Moody barked.

"I'm in no hurry, Healer Tonks," Connor said at the same time.

"Oh, but _I_ am," she replied grimly, completely blanking Moody and surveying Connor closely. "You look almost as bad as that other one."

"How is he?"

"I can't say he's doing peachy, but I believe that he'll be up and going in a couple of days, with some luck. I'm guessing you did the initial healing?"

Connor nodded, suddenly apprehensive.

"It looks terrible, but you did a decent job. Now let's get you looked at, kid." With these words, she motioned Connor towards the kitchen door, giving Harry a look that said: 'You have four minutes left, Potter, _don't push it._'

As he rose from his seat, Connor leaned in to Moody and whispered something in his ear. Moody froze for a second, both eyes fixed on the boy's retreating back. He blinked in shock, shook his head, then stood up, his clawed foot scraping the floorboards.

"_Sweet_ _Merlin_... Why didn't you say so before?" Moody's tone was that of utter astonishment, and was that..._recognition_?

"As if you'd have let me come close enough." Connor grabbed Moody's arm. "I need to speak with Dumbledore," he repeated, for perhaps the fifth time since he'd arrived. "As soon as you can get a hold on him."

"Yes, yes, I'll arrange it. As soon as he returns. Go with the Healer, lad," was the surprising response. Moody's tone, though, was what made Harry stare. It was downright _fatherly_, he'd never have expected the harsh Ex-Auror capable of it.

"Oh, and Connor—" Moody called after him, "you'll need these." He pressed the wands back into the boy's hand, his face contorting into a creepy grimace of a smile, even as Healer Tonks gave him a pointed look and led the boy away.

Harry followed them out slowly, utterly confused. The answers to his unspoken questions would not come today, he was aware of this much. That did not keep him from turning things over in his head as he made his slow way back to Sirius' bedroom.

* * *

Connor staggered into the room where the other was lying on a bed, asleep. As tired eyes roved around the room, he became ever more acutely aware of his own, rather unhygienic state. Chris' filthy, torn robes were in a heap at the foot of his bed, contrasting with the stark white linen he was covered in now, as out of place in the surgically clean chamber as Connor felt at the moment. The smell of healing potions filled the air, which was much cleaner here than downstairs. A spell had been cast to keep the temperature level, too; it was warm here, pleasantly so. Rows of multi-coloured bottles, vials and jars of ointments lined a rather oversized nightstand of sorts that had been placed by Chris' bedside.

Connor took a few tentative steps inside, approaching his brother almost hesitantly. Instead of making for his bed as instructed, he sat down on the bed by Chris' side, biting his lower lip with worry as he looked his twin over.

He hadn't had the chance to see him in broad daylight before now, and part of him was glad about it. Even now he was all cleaned up and properly bandaged, not to mention looked after, he still looked terrible, worse than he remembered him looking before. His breath was still uneven, coming in ragged and shallow gasps, his eyes sunken, the dark rings under them contrasting sharply with his pale skin. And yet, he was fast asleep, resting after two days of strain.

Two days. Had it really been that long?

_Longer_, his mind prompted. _If you count in the Dementor attack on the twenty-second, that makes it what, three days? Four?_

Connor's breath caught in his chest. He had done it.

Against all odds, after running for he had managed to get Chris to safety, alive.

This abrupt realisation did not, however, bring any sort of relief. He let out a long, slow breath.

Knowing he had, somehow, managed to do what Gramps asked him to, if anything, made Connor feel all the more uneasy. So far, he had concentrated on eluding the Death Eaters, on keeping Chris alive, and foregone all thoughts beyond reaching the Order's Headquarters, of getting help for his brother. Yet now, looking at Chris on that bed, his brain automatically moved on to the next big question.

What was to become of them now? Chris was badly hurt, everyone they had ever learned to trust was dead, gone. _Gramps_ was gone, and with him, all sense of stability he'd ever known. And, he knew, the world was hostile, and would continue to be, especially to them. Even the Professor's reaction to seeing them had been less than friendly... until Connor had told him. But he couldn't tell everyone, could he?

_Could he?_

He reached out one shaking hand, placed it on Chris' arm, squeezing lightly. Chris drew a deep, shuddering breath, but did not otherwise react. Connor forced out a wan, hollow smile.

They were safe, for the time being, and he could not do anything more about it. Not right now. He had shoved the matter into the Professor's hands, all that was left now was waiting for Dumbledore to show up.

"Your bed is just a few feet over," a female voice said quietly from behind him. "You'll be more comfortable there."

"He'll be alright, won't he?" Connor breathed in a small voice. Healer Tonks nodded, smiling reassuringly.

"Yes, he will. In a few days... He is exhausted, but already on the mend."

Connor breathed in true relief at last, slumping as he sat. Suddenly he felt light-headed and shaky, close to tears, even. It finally sank in.

They had made it all the way here, and they were safe. He didn't know for how long, but they were safe, and that was all that mattered now.

"Come," Healer Tonks motioned for him to get moving, gently ushering him to the spare bed. "I'm not sure about how you are doing, though. Let me look you over."

Connor swallowed dryly and nodded, getting to unsteady feet and covering the short distance to the other bed, swaying a little as he sat down, his eyes fixed on the floorboards ahead of him.

"Right," Healer Tonks mumbled, kneeling down before him to unbutton his muddy, bloodied robes. "Where does it hurt?"

* * *

Albus Dumbledore had not had a good day so far. The visit to the Department of Mysteries which had begun the previous evening, had dragged on to past lunchtime the following day, and he did not manage to escape the Ministry without running into a very distraught Cornelius Fudge, who had babbled some nonsensical accusations at him before shuffling hurriedly to his office, a half-score insistent reporters following closely behind.

Albus had, however, managed to get a hold of a copy of the _Daily Prophet_, heard a disturbing tale or two, and even held a brief, yet very much informative talk with a grim-looking Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was on his way to one of the Auror Apparition Points, followed by a team of Hit Wizards and headed to Inverarray. The Auror did tell him, almost in code, that they had managed to safely take Harry to Headquarters, where he was being presently tended to by Healer Tonks and Madam Pomfrey. He could not elaborate on Harry's condition, but knowing the boy was safe sufficed for the moment.

Dumbledore, in turn, asked Kingsley to look for two fourteen-year-old boys in and around the McAlpin Estate, and to bring them to Headquarters if they were found alive. He could not provide much by way of useful information, however, other than their names, and that they had black hair and grey eyes. If Kingsley was confused by this, he did not show it, but assented by jokingly asking for the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts Master at Hogwarts.

"They are likely injured, and, as my sources have informed me, they shall not approach you willingly, unless you disclose your... other affiliation," Albus said quietly, after chuckling and loudly offering the Auror some sherbet lemons. "Yes, Kingsley, I shall look into it, we have as yet found no suitable replacement this year," he added loudly. "Do feel free to stop by for tea sometime, there is no need for you to owl beforehand," he added, and both wizards took their leave from each other shortly after.

The return to Headquarters went smooth and quick, as usual. Albus apparated to the park outside the town house, entering it quietly so as to not disturb the portrait, whose curtains were open. Mrs. Black, however, merely sputtered and gibbered at him, as if shocked. The Hogwarts Headmaster raised an eyebrow, striding to the much more welcoming kitchen.

"Took you long enough," Alastor greeted him impatiently, even as around him, Minerva McGonagall, Tonks and the Weasleys looked up from their respective drinks. They all looked tired, Albus noted. "Did you get stuck with the press mob that's been pestering the Magical Law Enforcement Squads? We've been waiting for hours."

"My apologies. I was... detained," Albus replied, sinking into a chair with a sigh and conjuring some tea for himself. There was something tense in the air, however, and the way the grizzled wizard was staring at him did not serve to enlighten him beyond the fact that, there was indeed something further to discuss, something that likely had to do with Harry.

"I am all ears now, however," Albus ventured after a moment's silence.

"Good, because we have a fair bit to tell you. Angus McAlpin's grandsons are here."

* * *

"My Lord, you wished to see me?" The Death Eater bowed low before him. Voldemort waved a long-fingered hand in an impatient gesture of dismissal.

"Get up, Rasmus, there's no need for you to do that now," he hissed. "We have but six days left, what are the news?"

"I have gathered seven so far, my Lord," Rasmus replied, taking a seat across from Voldemort's own. "I am planning to bring you two more, before the night is over. Nott and MacNair are looking into it already, I am confident we will have them all long before the deadline."

"Where are you keeping them?" The Dark Lord inquired, pleased to hear the news. Six days to go, and less than half the elements left to gather for the party.

"The Dementor Pit," came the reply. "Although I am confident Bella will keep them duly entertained for the next few days, if things become... overly dull."

Voldemort smiled thinly, nodding his agreement. That particular project was coming along nicely, good.

"Have you heard any news about the Clan McFusty?" the Dark Lord asked next, in a conversational tone that was rarely heard by any Death Eater, save perhaps those few who enjoyed what could be termed a friendship with Voldemort. Such a thing did not exist, and neither of the wizards present in the parlour were fooled. They were friends as much as they were master and servant, titles which they honoured for mere form's sake.

It was, however, a most excellent arrangement, which had so far, brought both sides enough satisfaction to continue pursuing an exchange.

"The eyes of the press are on them at all times, particularly since their heir has died," Rasmus informed, summoning himself some wine. He was completely at ease, secure in his power. "We can strike on the day of the funeral, or the morning after," he added, earning himself a pensive nod from his master. "They will be too occupied _mourning_ to pay attention to what is important, and we will be able to help ourselves without interruptions." An elegant little scoff and a roll of his eyes conveyed the rest of the message.

Voldemort chuckled. Rasmus went about matters in a thorough, methodical fashion, pinpointing the critical areas and offering immediate solutions to them without getting out of stride. If Rasmus said it could be done, it could be done... which was why Voldemort kept him around and made so many concessions to him.

"The Wandmaker will be pleased, he has been asking for conventional cores. When is the funeral due?"

"The date has not yet been set, but we are ready to strike even now," came the confident reply. "Last I heard, the Hit Wizards had not yet managed to retrieve the corpses."

"So we have an advantage." Voldemort snapped his fingers, and a blood-red goblet appeared in his hand, filled with a poisonous-looking green liquid that steamed slightly. _Serpente_, a liquor made of the venom of thirteen different snake breeds, so rare and expensive it was thought not to exist outside legend. It served as a strong tonic, although anything over a mouthful would kill a fair-sized wizard in a heartbeat. Voldemort stashed the stuff by the barrel, his favourite aperitif as it were.

"I would ask something further of you, then, since you appear to have the time for it now."

"Anything, my Lord, as long as it is within my power to provide."

"I need a new body," Voldemort mused. He had always confided in Rasmus, who, having no further interest in anything outside of his game, had no reason whatsoever to use this information against him. He gestured a long, bony hand at himself. "This one might be powerful, but it is ultimately flawed. The link with the Potter boy is getting stronger by the day, and the constant Occlumency needed to block him out is draining my strength."

Rasmus nodded shortly. The link with the Potter boy was not the sole reason for this decision, he knew, but he was not supposed to be aware of the fact that Potter had managed to control Voldemort's body for a brief period of time a few days ago, during the DalRiada raid. Over a distance of almost 700 miles.

"I have been feeding him dreams, but it does not seem to be enough," Voldemort hissed, sipping his _Serpente_ with relish. "Nothing ever is with that one. I want him, Rasmus, but for that I need to be rid of this connection... it is not worthwhile having if he can see through me but I cannot see through him at all."

"What sort of body would Your Lordship wish for?" Rasmus inquired, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement of the last statement. Voldemort's eyes glinted red.

"A young body. A powerful one. Nothing less will do, a common body would die with ordinary possession, in a matter of weeks, maybe days. There is, however, one who would withstand the process, one whose body I could claim as my own without much problem."

Rasmus thought he knew where this was going. He nodded patiently, however, allowing the Dark Lord to explain his plan before jumping to conclusions.

"Severus should start researching how to make the transfer, but you, my friend, are tasked with the more important part of the plan. I know who I want."

Rasmus looked keenly at his master, not bothering to hide the glint of excitement welling up in his own eyes. "Who might that be?"

"One of those twins... I want one of the McAlpin boys."

_And there it is. _

Rasmus felt a smile of triumph tugging at his lips. He did not bother to ask why the Dark Lord had come to this conclusion, Voldemort would tell him in due time, he always did. Sheer power of the McAlpin heir was not the sole backing for his reasoning, and Rasmus was well aware of it. He welcomed the opportunity of a hunt, however, the reasons for it would come to him in time, and he was nothing if not painfully patient.

"Find them, Rasmus, bring them to me, no matter what the cost. You may keep the spare in exchange, I just need one after all... undamaged."

"Certainly," Rasmus conceded, bowing his head and steepling his fingers. "Do you have any preference as to which, My Lord?"

"I believe it is the firstborn, Rasmus. They are generally more powerful than their younger siblings... yes. Bring me the firstborn, whole, do with the other as you wish."

"You are aware it might be a long-term project, my Lord," Rasmus retorted, raising his eyebrows. "They might be with some of their old friends... Dumbledore might have already taken a hold of them."

Voldemort nodded once. This turn of events was quite predictable, after all.

"I have waited for years, Rasmus," he pointed out. "Time I have in spades. I need quality, not speed."

Rasmus fell silent for a while, already pondering ways of action in this regard.

"The girl," he mused aloud. "McAlpin's granddaughter... what became of her, I wonder."

Voldemort waved a long hand at him, the gesture bordering on languid.

"Bella kept her... as a personal plaything, I believe," he commented offhandedly. Rasmus nodded again, an idea forming in his mind.

"I would wish to use her... as bait, perhaps."

"If you can find a use for her, by all means," was the unconcerned reply. "All my resources are, as per usual, at your disposition."

"Thank you, your Lordship, you are most generous," Rasmus replied, smiling coldly. "I do, in fact, believe she could be put to better use than Bella's entertainment—I shall strive to duly compensate her, for the loss of such... rare a toy."

Voldemort let out a chilling laugh. Today was a good day. Everything seemed to be running smoothly, and Rasmus was already thinking out a plan. He raised his gobletful of Serpente in silent toast, mirrored by the other wizard.

"Is there anything else you might need for this venture?"

"I should like to have a word with Severus, my Lord... I am not completely certain yet, but I do believe I shall devise a suitable plan after seeking his counsel."

* * *

For the past half hour, Albus had been listening to a fantastic account. Angus' 'pupils' were, in fact, his grandchildren. And they had arrived, half dead in the middle of the night, eluding Death Eaters and the rest of the wizarding world as they crossed half the country to reach Headquarters. Impressive as though the story might be, there was more to it, he could tell by merely looking at his long-time friend.

"I didn't remember them at first, although Connor made it pretty clear he knew _me_," Alastor continued with a growl. "It didn't click until he told me he was—" Moody made a choked noise in the back of his throat, tried again, with the same result. Everyone turned their heads towards Mad-Eye, who merely chuckled good-naturedly.

"That old sod McAlpin was a _genius_," he commented, shaking his grizzled head. "I can't tell you what the kid said... but I believe I can explain some of it."

"Kindly do," Minerva interjected, suppressing a yawn and looking strained. These past few days had been taxing for all.

"McAlpin was head of the Department of Mysteries until 1981. Late that year, he developed a variation of the Fidelius Charm, to protect his family from the Dark Side," Moody informed in a grunt. "Few even know of them, and those who do... well, the charm comes coupled with a selective obliviation spell the old coot developed too."

"How do you know that?" Albus enquired, frowning slightly.

"Because I taught those kids for two, no, three years, up until the time I went to Hogwarts to get stuck in my trunk," Moody counters. "I only just remembered, when Connor lifted the memory spell and the Fidelius Charm for me." If anything, he looked impressed and proud, not at all miffed that his memory had been tampered with.

"I agreed to it, you know," he growled at the many confused looks shot his way. "It was a necessity back then. Still is, but I couldn't tell you why if I tried. All I _can_ tell you is there is much more to those two than meets the eye, they need our help and protection, and they need it yesterday."

Silence greeted these words, while everyone present digested them the best they could.

The thoughtful, rather confused quiet pervading the kitchen was broken quite unceremoniously moments later, when Healer Tonks trampled down the stairs and flopped onto a chair, summoning herself some water. She looked worn out, and her robes were stained with fresh blood. Not that she seemed to mind about it.

"Well," she stated, after draining a goblet of water and looking around. "They'll live."

"What are...?" Mad-Eye and McGonagall asked in tandem, both stopping short to allow the other to speak and neither finishing the question.

Healer Tonks laughed tiredly, launching into a rather clipped description of the boys' conditions.

"The first one, Chris, has lost a lot of blood," she informed. "He was hit by a shredding curse, a well-aimed one." She paused long enough to allow everyone around to flinch and cringe in sympathy before explaining the remainder of his injuries, which included a few strike spells and a hurling hex. "He is worn to the limit, of course, which never helps. The other one, Connor, is not much better off. I am surprised they made it this far under such conditions," she commented. "That alone will set the healing period back a few days, but they're strong... they'll pull through."

Mad-Eye let out a sigh of relief, echoed across the room by everyone else present.

"Connor's injuries are less grave, but more numerous, not to mention he hardly took the time to look at them, which leaves him in much the same state as the other one," Healer Tonks added, not bothering to list off every broken bone, every gash she'd mended over the hours. "I'd be surprised to see _him_ waking up in the next couple of days, he's completely knackered."

"What now, Albus?" McGonagall voiced rightly what should be their main concern.

Dumbledore exchanged a significant look with Moody, who spoke up once more.

"As I remember it, I was to take guardianship of the boys, should anything happen to Angus. I doubt that has changed in any way whatsoever. Given they're the last living McAlpins, the matters of property and vaults and the like are a no-brainer. What I am concerned about," he stated, "is how to keep them safe from future attacks."

"The can stay here over the summer," Dumbledore replied in turn. "Along with Harry, they might just be the most sought-after by the Death Eaters at the moment. We can take them to Hogwarts in September."

"_If_ they agree to it," Moody growled. Dumbledore did not have an answer to that.

"Albus' plan would help us along, Alastor," McGonagall pointed out. "Now, the matter of their custody is thankfully settled, but it reminds me of Harry's custody. Who shall take guardianship over him now Sirius is gone?"

"I shall breach the subject to Harry," Dumbledore retorted. "Once we have settled matters with the McAlpin boys." He rose from his seat, McGonagall nodded in agreement. "Andromeda, may I see them? It will just be a minute."

"They're _asleep_, Dumbledore," was the flat, rather unimpressed response. "But have it your way. You have ten minutes, they need to rest rather desperately."

Albus nodded, bowing himself out of the kitchen. Moody followed, not bothering to get the Healer's permission. Healer Tonks rolled her eyes tiredly, waving her wand at her robes to clean them of the bloodstains.

* * *

Harry wasn't allowed back downstairs all day, nor the next, even if he didn't feel half as weak and shaky as he did before.

Healer Tonks came in sometime before noon on the day the McAlpin twins arrived, her robes splattered with blood and what appeared to be potions, looking careworn and rather unapproachable. She took to checking him over, gave him a few strengthening potions, and changed the bandage she'd placed around his head; his scar had been bleeding since he had had that last vision of Voldemort in the McAlpin's courtyard, and it kept opening at random times, accompanied by sharp jabs of pain whenever it did.

Harry asked after the boys, but she would not say anything; he chalked it up to her being tired and grumpy, as she had probably been up for days looking after him and now those newcomers, so he did not press the matter. She ordered him, as usual, to try and sleep as much as he could, encouraging him to use a bell she left on his nightstand if ever he needed anything.

He couldn't sleep, however tired he was, his mind completely busy with the strange newcomers, or else plagued by nightmares of Trolls on a pier, of Dementors and burning houses, of the living dead walking towards him, _drag—thump... drag—thump_...

As if that weren't enough, he tapped into Voldemort's head a few times, yet the connection was too short, too vague to make anything out at all. Invariably, such visions were coupled with sharp burning in his scar, blood trickling down his forehead as he cradled it in his hands, wishing he could just tear his scar off and be done with it. The visions left him drained and gasping, and every time, the recurring nightmare of the dark, dank cave-like chamber followed, where he crawled over shards of glass, blindly looking for Sirius, whose voice kept impatiently demanding to know who was there.

It was enough to put anyone off sleeping more than strictly necessary, and Harry had gone on without a good night's rest long enough to be used to this sort of arrangement, raw deal or not. He took to idly watching the sun crawl through the grimy windowpane of his bedroom, trying to figure out who the McAlpin boys were.

They looked entirely too familiar to be allowed, but he was certain they had never set a foot at Hogwarts. He'd remember them. He had the feeling that he _ought_ to know them, a sense of having seen them before in the waking world, but by the life of him, he could not remember when or where. It intrigued him to no end, and he couldn't wait to find out.

Mrs. Weasley, whom Harry had counted on for news, however, did not help him either. She brought him his meals, fluffed up his pillows and checked his bandages, but she was strangely quiet, with rings under her eyes and a certain distance whenever she addressed him that had not been there before. It made Harry not want to talk to her more than was absolutely needed. He knew by the look on her face she had been crying, and unbidden, the images of the boggart she had faced the previous summer came into mind, and he sipped his soup quietly, not daring to speak up.

Otherwise, he was left alone in the large chamber, listlessly staring at the dark red canopy of his bed and brooding in silence, which was near complete, suffocating. Apart from the black canvas of a thankfully empty portrait which he knew belonged to Phineas Nigellus—he had heard him sniggering a few times, but was thankfully spared from seeing him—there was no source of sound in the room.

The dedicated, constant care of Healer Tonks, Madam Pomfrey, and Mrs. Weasley, yielded results. He was indeed healing, and with an increase in his energy, the feeling of restlessness began to assert itself.

He left his bed sometime in the afternoon on the day after the McAlpin twins arrived, his third at Headquarters, and spent some time alternately glaring at every corner in the room and pacing around. The movement made him feel a little better, even if he tired quickly and it increased the feeling of confinement, but the effort helped distract him a little from the steady stream of bitter thoughts his mind was adamantly presenting him.

However, the thoughts won out as his eyes fell on something sitting on his bedside table. It was the mirror Sirius had given him, which he had taken out of the case he'd somehow managed not to lose sometime earlier, for lack of anything better to do. It had taken a simple repair spell to fix it, but he had not called into it again. What good would it do, except make him hope for what was not going to happen? He'd give anything, _anything_, to see Sirius' face again, had long lost all hope of ever doing so.

_Sirius_... Sirius might have known who the boys were, why Voldemort was after them. Come to think of it, Sirius _had_ usually been rather well-informed of, well, almost everything. He'd been a ready source of advice, but most of all, he'd trusted Harry, treated him as an equal and not like a child. He had been there for him, had had faith in him, never once lied to him.

_And look where that landed him,_ Harry thought bitterly, glaring at the worn rug on the side of the bed. _Azkaban, Merlin knows how many other places while he was on the run... sleeping in caves, or worse... only to end up in another, equally bad prison and..._ He gulped down the word, not wanting to even think of it, and resumed his pacing, jaw clenched. Suddenly the idea of seeing Sirius' face again became less than appealing. What could he tell him? How could he even think of facing him again if he had as good as killed him?

"Sorry" did not suffice now any more than it had so far.

Harry took to pacing up and down the room again.

Despite the frequent wakings and unpleasant dreams, Harry did manage to rest some. Since his room came with its own bathroom, and his almost every need was being catered to, there was no real need for him to leave, even if he'd wanted to. Which he didn't, not anymore.

When a very tired-looking Healer Tonks announced, while giving him his morning potions on the twenty-seventh, the third day after his arrival, that he would be ready to be about the house for a little while later that day, Harry was faced with mixed feelings. Part of him was itching for movement, particularly now the strength was returning to his limbs, and welcomed the opportunity to give more than a few paces in either direction at last.

Yet another part of him did not want to leave, however; as hateful as he perceived every minute he spent in Sirius' old bedroom – he still had trouble considering it his own – he had never been there long during his other stays at Grimmauld Place, and he knew that once he left the dubious safety it provided, he would have to see the rest of the house, and the memories would come flooding back, and once they did... He wasn't sure what he would do.

He did leave though, in time for a late breakfast or an early lunch, whichever way he looked at it. The oppressing sense of confinement proved more daunting than the memories for the time being.

He also found he had been right; even as he hobbled slowly across the old corridors—which, despite the visible efforts to clear them, seemed to be adamant on retaining the 'classical evil-wizard style' as Sirius used to put it—images, sounds, and even smells from his last stay there popped up around every corner, from every nook and cranny, only to disappear again and return to their dark corners to lurk and wait for another time when he could be caught unawares.

He stopped on the third floor landing to catch his breath, and there was Sirius, grinning at him while he told him of some mad stunt he and James had pulled at school, or else telling him with every detail how he had fooled Chinese Aurors while in Peking, or asking for a retelling of Harry's escape from the dragon in the Triwizard Tournament... Harry looked away, tried to hurry up. His eyes fell on the corridor leading to the Master Bedroom, where Sirius had kept Buckbeak; it had been his favourite brooding place, when things were going less than well for them all... Gritting his teeth, Harry made his way downstairs, hoping for some distraction.

* * *

He sensed him before he entered the kitchen, knowing he was in there without needing to see.

His left arm was held in a sling, his forehead sported a bandage similar to Harry's own, and he was sitting ramrod straight, wearing a set of Harry's pyjamas and an old, threadbare bathrobe Ron had discarded the previous summer. Connor did not even look up from the newspaper he was reading as Harry entered, turning instead to hand Mrs. Weasley an empty plate.

She greeted Harry warmly, stifling a yawn as she motioned for him to sit. everyone else had apparently already left for the day. Harry took a seat, across from Connor, who seemed absorbed by whatever he was reading.

"Hello, I'm—" Harry began, deciding that introducing himself would be the obvious course of action, and possibly, a start to a conversation.

"Harry Potter, I know," Connor mumbled absently, without looking up. For an explanation, he tapped his own bandaged forehead once, graced Harry with a glance right after. Harry frowned, slightly taken aback. He was used to people knowing who he was by now, but Connor had hardly glanced at him, even that night he and his brother arrived.

"I'm Connor," he added, almost as an afterthought, resting the paper against the sugar bowl to carry on reading. Before Harry could say anything else, Mrs. Weasley placed loaded with food before each of them, and Connor tucked in like a starved man, turning his attention alternately to his food and the paper after thanking Mrs. Weasley profusely.

Harry reached for one of the old Daily Prophets scattered on the table, to give himself something to do other than stare at the boy sitting before him in silence. Someone had beaten him to the front page, though, but he wasn't in a picky mood at the moment. He skimmed though most of the articles until one caught his attention.

_July 26, 1996_

_**Inquiry to be conducted at the Ministry of Magic.**_

_The Ministry of Magic spokeswizard Stamford Jorkins, 57, said, in a statement deposed earlier this week after a Wizengamot hearing, that a full inquiry shall be conducted, regarding the alleged wrongful imprisonment of one Sirius Hellion Wilfred Orion Merlin Dexter Nestor Soren Pendragon Alphard Phineas Black (36, deceased), wrongfully believed for years to be He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's right-hand man, the alleged murderer of twelve muggles and three wizards, as well as the greatest threat to the Wizarding World after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself, whose life recently was ended during the battle at the Department of Mysteries, in the heart of the Ministry of Magic. Black had, as per firsthand sources, gone to the Department of Mysteries to rescue Harry Potter and a handful of Hogwarts students held by notorious escapee Death Eaters. _

_The story, which struck the Wizarding World as unbelievable at first, has further been confirmed as the inquiry continues. Black, allegedly a prominent member of the legendary Order of the Phoenix, a secret organisation set to fighting the Dark Side during the First War (1970-1981), was never responsible for the charges imputed upon him. Spokeswizard Jorkins assured that "he is due to receving a full pardon soon."_

_The conditions of his imprisonment in Azkaban, the lack of a trial upon his capture, his unprecedented escape and his outwitting of the Ministry's top Aurors, as well as the conditions of his demise shall be fully revised, spokeswizard Jorkins, further stated, hinting that even awarding Black the Order of Merlin, First Class posthumously would not suffice to cover horrid mistakes and inconsistencies present in his case. "The man was a hero, and heroes should not be treated that way," he said._

_Already the charges of being in league with You-Know-Who and bringing about the escape of the 'Deadly Dozen' last January, which had previously been pinned on Black, have been dropped, spokeswizard Jorkins declared, pointing out that this is "One of the worst disgraces the Ministry of Magic has ever partaken in." _

Harry lowered the paper, feeling sick to his stomach. He could not read on; what good did it do to Sirius to clear his name now? He was gone, and Harry knew who was responsible for it. He picked at his food, all appetite gone.

"Harry, you do need to eat up, it's getting cold," Mrs. Weasley admonished, gathering the loose pages of the Daily Prophet and folding them neatly before placing them on the table. She did not, however, take the front page from Connor, whose eyes remained fixed on it even as he started on a third helping of breakfast.

"D'you mind letting me have a look at it?" Harry asked, gesturing at the paper Connor was still looking at while feeding himself right-handed.

Connor stopped chewing for a moment, and looked Harry over, as if appraising him... and not being at all happy with what he saw. Harry frowned in confusion, but just when he was going to comment about it, Connor gave him a half-shrug and handed him the paper, pulling another one towards him.

"Thanks," said Harry, watching the boy closely. Once again, the feeling of almost-recognition crept over him. He'd _seen_ that face before, and not in a dream either. He had seen the exact same jaw line, the nose, even the eyes, at _Hogwarts_... but... it _couldn't_ be. Connor turned back to eating, completely ignoring Harry.

Giving himself a shake, Harry looked at the front page of the Daily Prophet—and stared.

Over half the page was taken up by a picture of the Dark Mark, hovering over the smoking ruins of McAlpin Estate. He recognised it without a problem, remembered how it had looked, when it still was whole, what had made it into a smouldering heap of stone and wood.

**_Attack on Dal Riada Estate— Clan McAlpin Annihilated_**, the headline read.

_At nightfall on the 24th, the estate was attacked by a great force of Death Eaters. The Clan McAlpin, one of the oldest wizarding families in the world, thought long disappeared, was annihilated. All its members, turned into Inferi. We are once more facing the same darkness as years ago, what will bring this madness to a halt?_

Harry felt a wave of cold overcome him, chills running down his spine. How Connor could have polished off two plates of Mrs. Weasley's English Breakfast while looking at that picture the way he had, was beyond him. He returned the front page wordlessly to the other boy, who gave another careless shrug and tossed the paper farther down the table, now apparently immersed in a cross-word puzzle.

He glanced at Connor every now and then, the sensation of being studiously observed and ignored at the same time increasing with every passing moment. By the time he had forced down the last bite of his sausages, he was convinced Connor felt nothing short of contempt towards him, but by the life of him, he could not fathom why.

He worked his way across the papers in silence. The news were no better than they had been so far, there were notes everywhere relating of disappearances of Muggleborns or their families, Dementor attacks, Death Eater sightings... nowhere did Harry see so much as a hint of news that someone had fought back. He reached for today's paper, almost reluctantly.

This, too, was entirely too similar to the rest to be comfortable with. Apart from learning that today was July twenty-seventh, there was little difference from all the rest he'd read so far.

The reporters screamed for news of the 'Chosen One', who was, as per statement by Dumbledore himself, 'in an undisclosed location, to ensure his safety'. Harry felt his stomach threaten to turn. People were pinning their hopes on him, and where three weeks ago they had been singing songs of praise about his 'boundless courage' as he faced the Death Eaters at the Ministry—his _courage._

What did they know?

Courage. Right.

Stupidity, that's what it was. Hermione had told him there was no way Voldemort could have kept _Sirius_ of all people in the Department of Mysteries for hours, but he hadn't listened, had he? He'd thought he'd manage to come out on top, like so many times before. But he hadn't, and Sirius had died.

He glanced at the paper again. Now, people were nothing short of demanding to know what his plans were to battle Death Eaters, wanting to know why he was doing nothing about the disappearances.

What _could_ he do? Survive? It certainly was the one thing he excelled at. Drop a bomb right on top of his head, he'd probably live to tell the tale. But, he argued with himself, that was hardly enough to face Voldemort. Why were people so adamant in thinking he was the hero they needed? Were they _that_ desperate?

Harry sighed heavily, chewing on his bottom lip with apprehension. The prophecy came to mind, unbidden.

'..._neither can live while the other survives.._.' He pushed the thought as far from his mind as he could, he wouldn't ever be able to face Voldemort and hope to win, no matter how much the reporters clamoured that he would.

* * *

Connor rose from his seat and limped towards the door, after thanking Mrs. Weasley for her cooking. Snapping out of his brooding, Harry followed wordlessly, catching up with him by the foot of the stairs.

"Hold up, wait—"

Connor turned to look at him... and there was that cool look again, coupled with an indescribable, closed expression Harry could not place at all.

"I... I just wanted to ask..." For some reason, he felt nervous all of a sudden. Asking the boy before him who he really was did not seem the right question to ask, nor was asking how he knew him if he'd never seen him at all, and neither was demanding to know why Connor hated him so, even if all three were on the tip of his tongue.

"H-how is your brother doing?" he asked instead.

"Chris? He'll live," was the curt answer, delivered with a strong Scottish accent. "Or so Healer Tonks says. Hasn't woken up much at all though."

"Oh... Well I, I hope he gets better soon."

"He will." Harry didn't know quite how to carry on this conversation. Connor's tone brooked no uncertainty, no doubt. It was also final, indicating their exchange was over.

Harry nodded once, struck with the sudden urge to do something, _anything_ to help.

"If you need anything at all," he heard himself blurt, "anything... whatever you might..."

"We don't." The slightest hint of annoyance crossed Connor's features, but when Harry looked again, it was gone, that impassive poker face back in place.

"The offer stands, I could—" Harry replied, before he was aware the words left his mouth. Connor cut him off with a disbelieving snort.

"Help us?" he finished for Harry, chuckling almost derisively. "What makes you think—"

Harry was about to reply to that, driven by the same impulse that had prompted him to offer his aid—whatever that might amount to. He had no time to respond, or indeed begin to ponder what he'd just done, though. As one, he and Connor looked up the stairs, in the direction of the room occupied by the twins.

"He's awake." Connor's voice was a mere whisper, so low Harry wasn't sure if he'd said anything at all or if it was his own mind voicing a thought; words weren't necessary, however. Chris was awake, disoriented, confused. Harry had _felt_ it as surely as Connor had.

That in itself was boggling.

Without another word, Connor climbed the stairs, disappearing behind the door. As it shut with a soft 'click', Harry snapped out of his daze.

_What was that?_ He had no answer for this question, but part of him was certain that Connor knew. That same part of him also knew, but it was as if he'd been hit by a Confundus Charm; he didn't know what he knew, or how he did. It had been almost... instinctive.

* * *

Night was falling, as was the eternal London drizzle, when Rasmus Thanatovich apparated in a dank, mist-covered alley close to the slum called Spinner's End. He did not bother with Muggle clothing, even if he was striding purposefully down the street and looking for all the world as if he owned it.

Which, he mused absently, he very well could. He would have to contact his realtor.

Screwing up his nose at the smells reaching him from the overturned, overflowing rubbish bins scattered along the way, and sidestepping a rat or three, a few well-placed wards and a guardian bat statue, he stopped by a very much shabby-looking door at the shabbiest part of the street.

He kicked the door a few times, waiting rather impatiently for it to open.

Eventually it did, revealing a short, grubby, straw-blond wizard with overlarge front teeth who blinked at him with watery blue eyes. Rasmus looked haughtily down at him, his expression scornful.

"Let me in, _rat_. I have an important errand to see to and little time to waste with the likes of you," he commanded.

With a squeak, the short man scuttled aside, watching him with wide, fearful eyes. Rasmus spared the double-crosser not a glance, striding into the dinghy front room. Snape's hygiene seemed to have not improved one jot since he had last been here in 1982. He stood before the fireplace, hands folded behind his back.

"Call Severus. I have news for him."

* * *

TBC.


	19. Causality Part One Stratagem

**Disclaimer: Canon characters and situations © J.K. Rowling and assorted Mugwumps. Original characters, situations, desserts and stuff owned by one DND. Who isn't ****getting any money or retribution of any kind for the writing of this piece of fan fiction. **

**Dedication: To everyone who's held out this long, and carried on reading and reviewing. Thanks a ton!**

**Thanks: To Shayde, for helping me with the proofread. **

**Congrats: To Japonica, for finishing Always! **

**Author's Note: This is a 2x1 chapter, considering the length, to make up for the even lengthier hiatus. Do try and enjoy.**

* * *

**The Time of the Turning**

**Chapter 19**

**Causality Part One -- Stratagem**

_Every Cause has its Effect; every Effect has its Cause. What we call ''Chance" is merely an expression relating to obscure causes; causes that we cannot perceive; causes that we cannot understand. _

_**The Kybalion**_

* * *

"Ah, Severus," Rasmus drawled, interrupting his examination of the dinghy fireplace, upon noticing the approaching, spidery footsteps of the wizard he was awaiting. "I must say, the service of your house is rather lacking. There I was hoping that _rat_ would have some manner of use, at least." Again, he spat it out. Snape's expression, however well-known his loathing for his one-time classmate, did not change.

"Rasmus," was the curt reply, accompanied with an equally stiff nod. Rasmus left the many unasked questions hanging in the air, turning to face Severus with an unhurried step, completely unbothered by the rather comprehensive amount of tension he was subjecting the other wizard to. Having him visit anyone was, after all, a rare occurrence-- and never without purpose.

"Our Lord has issued a new order," Rasmus informed curtly, both hands clasped behind his back; this gesture might be less attributable to being at his entire ease, however, and more than likely caused by the state the house was in. Filth and disorder he had never learned to appreciate, much as he was not overly bothered by spending days on end in the field, stalking a quarry; yet Snape's home did not precisely scream of cleanliness, and the sort of vermin walking around in it was enough to make Rasmus quite uncomfortable—and irritable.

That they were both necessary to the completion of any of the major tasks at hand was evident to him, and perhaps, the sole reason why they were still alive; double-crossers, in Rasmus' eyes, deserved worse than death. Though he had to admit, if only to himself, that they _did_ have their uses.

At least one of them did.

For the time being.

Snape merely contented himself with giving Rasmus the same calculating look he had been graced with so far; a prompt in and of itself to continue, with well-concealed curiosity and—was that _dread_ he was perceiving?

Interesting.

"This, I trust you are capable of understanding, is a matter of the utmost importance—and confidentiality," Rasmus continued, pausing to give Snape a minute glance, which was answered by the practiced casting of imperturbable and silencing charms. He nodded, somewhat appeased, before speaking up again. "He is in need of a new body."

The words had hardly left his mouth, when Snape finally opened his own.

To leave it hanging open.

Snape could at least be so considerate as to brush his teeth, if he was planning on displaying them to any observer.

"_What_?" He was not even bothering to hide his shock, gaping, gob-smacked, at him.

"I am neither in the mood nor do I foster the habit of repeating myself," Rasmus replied dryly. "Your Master does not merely know what he wants, he also happens to know with precision who it is he wants." A pregnant pause, followed by the inevitable question.

"Who…?" It appeared that Snape was into monosyllabic conversation today. Further, the news had rattled him enough to allow Rasmus to see his open surprise and curiosity over the matter. And yet, was it really this unexpected? To Rasmus, it was a matter of logical inference, and thus, not in the least surprising.

Clearly Snape thought differently. Rasmus had expected more self-control from the sallow-faced wizard, but, as much as he loved to show off his apparent immutability, Snape was in truth boiling with emotions at every moment. He _reeked _of them, just as he reeked of potions ingredients and fumes, and oftentimes, such as now, of _old_ potions and the fumes thereof. Coupled with a less-than-healthy dose of bodily odours.

And Merlin-knew-what-else.

Such a very _unhygienic_ man. How did he live with himself?

"You ought to _know_ who," Rasmus replied, allowing a hint of cold amusement to permeate his features. "You were there. You saw it happen."

At least Snape had closed his mouth.

"Wh—" He raised a hand before the question was out completely. His patience could stretch seemingly endlessly when necessary, and conversely could wear thin in the matter of seconds.

Such as now.

"Snape, from what I have heard, you are supposed to be one of the painfully few members of the Innermost Circle who are actually alive from the neck up," he interjected. "The reason why he wants a new body is evident; The Potter boy's constant intrusion in his psyche is taxing him, amongst other reasons I have _not _come to discuss with you. You were there, as I said, therefore you should know."

There was no answer; Snape did regain his composure, however, gracing him with a scowl worthy of a Hogwarts Student being wrongfully told off by a teacher.

Pathetic.

"I do not enjoy of boundless free time either, so I shall be brief," Rasmus continued coolly. "Given the fact that possession has yielded, and shall surely continue to yield, only temporary results, your Master obviously requires a way to permanently inhabit this new body, without risk to him, or to the said body. That, so I have heard, is your area of expertise, so I do not believe I need to expound exactly on what your new priorities are, hm?"

Snape shook his head, jerkily. Rasmus could see a vein bulging in his forehead, and took that glare to be an additional bonus.

"I have been requested to deliver the body in question," he added, not bothering to hide his satisfaction at the turn of events, or the fact he was actually looking forward to working on this new project. "Given you are a trusted part of the Order as well, all I want of you, until further notice, is quite simply information."

"I report only to the Dark Lord." Oh, _now_ he suddenly remembered he possessed a vocabulary that was larger than three words.

"Not anymore," Rasmus retorted placidly. "Although I have no problem waiting for you to check back with Voldemort." Snape flinched as if struck.

How _quaint_.

"If you feel you would rather your Lord gave you the order to report to me directly." Snape's retaliatory argument died before it reached his lips. Just as well, Rasmus was not in a patient mood, and while Snape might not be wholly aware what taxing his patience meant, he was well aware what challenging Voldemort's would amount to. Particularly now, when it was a precious commodity with an ever-decreasing shelf life.

"What do you want to know?" Snape groused, apparently having realised his only option in the matter. Nobody said he was stupid. Rasmus gave him a thin-lipped smile.

"For a start, I would like to know if McAlpin's grandsons have contacted the Order in any way."

"Not as far as I know—I would have been informed of this at once," Snape drew himself up a slight, causing Rasmus to raise an eyebrow in turn; a double-crossing traitor, in his never-humble opinion, had no reason to pride himself of being what he was. "I'll send word as soon as I hear anything."

Although he had to admit, double-crossers did have their uses.

"Fair enough," Rasmus said, checking his watch. He was being expected in less than an hour in Newcastle to pick up two more toys for Voldemort's little horror show. "I shall also expect a report on the spells and potions prepared by that scuttling pet of yours," He nodded at the door Pettigrew had disappeared behind, "to restore the Dark Lord his body, thereby disproving the rumour there is no use for it any longer. You are not to discuss the subject matter with it, however—this information was for your ears only."

"I wouldn't worry about that." A thin-lipped smile, showing rows of yellow, crooked teeth that seemed to have been brushed last in 1964, give or take a couple of years. Rasmus thought he was not far off the mark.

"Let me know of any progress you make," he stated, checking his watch once more. "I have to collect another few special guests for your Master."

"Is he still bent on using the younger ones?" Delivered as it was in a carefully nonchalant tone, Rasmus did not fail to notice the other wizard's apprehension on the matter. He had to hand it to Snape, however; few others would have noticed.

"He is, but he shall not have his way," he replied easily. Nobody else would have been able to deny Voldemort anything, but he was happily endowed with enough strength… And sufficient logic to do so. "Given the poor quality of the accommodations he has prepared for his guests, anything that has not outgrown the need for nappies would not last until the appointed date, and he understands—though grudgingly so—that having to fetch him a replacement at the last minute, while his little celebration is underway, is not only not advisable, but also ultimately preventable. We might be late for the show, and that is the last thing he wants. I am taking some more grownups instead—particularly considering the Lestrange woman is in charge of the Pit—the youngest I believe will be four. Your Master isn't pleased, but it's the only sensible option."

Snape nodded, but refused to comment.

"Now, before I leave," Rasmus added, changing the topic yet again. "I need to know the whereabouts of the Longbottoms."

* * *

Albus quietly opened the door to the room Angus' grandchildren were being kept in, Alastor a half-step behind him. Having missed Connor's brief appearance for breakfast the previous day, he had visited the room several times since, each of which yielded the same scene; Andromeda was right, they were exhausted. Nevertheless, he returned periodically, in the hopes of being able to speak to either of them.

He had expected to find them sleeping still, but as it turned out, only one of them was. The other, identical to his twin to the last detail, was sitting on his bed, eyes fixed on his brother. He turned slowly to face them as they entered, but Albus did not miss the wand aimed at them from under the frayed sleeve of the bathrobe he was wearing.

"Connor McAlpin?" Albus asked, walking to his side and letting himself down on a chair next to him. The boy did not respond, surveying him instead, assessing him in a cool, detached manner that was rather reminiscent of… someone Albus could not place, before nodding at Moody in greeting and putting his wand aside.

"I reckon you heard," Connor mumbled, keeping his voice low, probably so as to avoid waking his brother. The Scottish accent could not be missed for anything, however. "Gramps told us to come here." Albus nodded in response.

"Good thing too," Moody commented at a growl. "How's he doing?"

"He's holding up," Connor replied, his attention back on his brother. "Healer Tonks said he'd be right as rain soon… All he needs to do is wake up for longer than five minutes in one go." Though he sounded hopeful enough, his worry was evident.

"Andromeda is an excellent Healer, and I trust we shall see improvements soon," Albus said, trying to be encouraging, and drawing the boy's attention to him. "And I bid you welcome here for as long as is necessary, although I do wish the circumstances of our meeting had been different." This was met with the waving of a dismissive hand.

"Doesn't matter," Connor replied in the same low tone. "What I don't know is what we're supposed to do now. Gramps said to come here, but..." he trailed off, gesturing at the prone figure on the other bed. "Once he's better, I'm not really sure where he'd have wanted us to go."

Dumbledore did not respond for a moment; it was almost as if this boy were not so much as considering the obvious choice. Next to him, Mad-Eye gave a small grunt.

"You are welcome at Hogwarts," Dumbledore stated gently. "It is, perhaps for the best if you—"

"No," Connor said at once, firmly. "That's something I know for a fact. Gramps didn't want us going there."

"Might I inquire as to why?"

"You have been known to staff Death Eaters," was the reply. The tone, a notch cooler than before.

"If you are talking about Severus, he has been on our side for..."

"How can you know for _sure_?" Connor cut in, icy eyes flashing straight at him. Albus returned the sharp look with a mild smile of his own.

"He enjoys my full trust and confidence." The response to that was delivered in the form of a derisive snort.

"As have others, and we all know what happened then, don't we?" Albus raised an eyebrow at the mocking tone.

"Cheeky blighter," said Moody, but Albus could tell he was amused. He on the other hand, was not.

"Never you mind, we're not going there anyway."

"You ought to finish your education, and—"

"There's no need to go to Hogwarts for _that_," Connor retorted, interrupting the Headmaster yet again. "There is a house... a safe house. He'd probably have wanted us to go there." And now he was addressing Moody, rather than Albus, for input.

"Hogwarts might not be what your Gramps wanted it to be, kid," Mad-Eye growled, both eyes fixed on his one-time student, "but I'm telling you now—it _is_ your best bet. Maybe there's little for you to learn there," he added, with an amused grimace of a smile. "but Snape or no, it's a public, well-warded place, where you _can_ be safe. Voldemort isn't about to go storming the castle," He raised a hand to stop the protests before they were out. "And I'll personally be there to make sure nothing happens to either of you. Think about it, lad—If he's managed to find you in Dal Riada, and further, if the bastard's managed to take down the wards _there_, he'll find you wherever you go."

There was a stretching, ringing silence. Connor shut his mouth, swallowing back his thoughts on the matter and opting to worry his lower lip instead. At least he was listening.

"Hiding in the open will be best for the both of you, and I _guarantee_ you the Order won't leave you stranded, either," Mad-Eye assured him.

Connor did not answer, clearly deliberating on the matter. In the end, he shook his head, uncertainly, looking lost as to what to decide, forlorn, even; to Albus, he looked his age at last.

"I don't know," he admitted in a small voice, glancing at Chris' bed.

"Sleep on it, kid," was Moody's recommendation. "We can discuss it properly later—I'll go look at your safe house anyway, if you still insist on going there after rolling it over a little."

Albus fixed Moody with a questioning look. The offer seemed abrupt, and not quite in keeping with Moody's usual policy of Constant Vigilance, but Mad-Eye was not even glancing in his direction, both eyes still scrutinising the boy's face. That he was even _considering_ taking the boys to the safe house was odd to the extreme; they were not of age, and would likely not reach seventeen if they were indeed as greatly wanted by the Dark Side as their current situation suggested. Of all people, Albus would have expected Moody to be the most adamant against it, not in the least because, as their Guardian, it was in the end, his decision to make.

Connor considered the matter for an additional moment, clearly debating his choices, then gave Moody a single, tense nod in response.

"I'll need the address, Connor," Moody prompted. This too, was delivered in a manner that was most unlike the old Ex-Auror's behaviour. It was downright gentle. Albus decided to stay out of it. There would be time to talk to Moody later, and there was definitely a host of things to be discussed.

In the hallway outside, carefully concealed behind a niche, Harry Potter pulled at an Extendable Ear to retrieve it, stuffing it in his pocket with a sigh and turning towards the stairs, his other hand holding a rolled-up Daily Prophet he had taken from the kitchen to read in Sirius' room.

While now he was allowed out for meals, it was but a small improvement on his previous situation. Mrs. Weasley continued to remain distant, reminding him vaguely -- and probably unjustly so as well -- of Aunt Petunia when he was younger; it was as if she were only catering to him because it was her duty, and not because she wanted to, as she had in the past. Try as he might to write it off as a result of weariness due to the long nights she spent looking after him and the McAlpin twins, and even longer days working for the Order, she had never before been this way.

Conversations were reduced to smalltalk and never lasted very long, but this in turn suited Harry perfectly. He had no desire of conversation with anyone. Save Connor McAlpin and his brother, which was perhaps the hardest yet. Since their short-lived talk the previous day, which did enough to rattle him to say the least, he had not had the chance to so much as glimpse them, and Healer Tonks would not answer his questions about their well-being either, advising him to focus on getting better instead.

Other than that, the day had been a slow succession of hours of brooding, berating himself for having returned at all, and driving himself to frustration speculating about the twins, mixed unevenly with vague visions of Voldemort, nightmares of a wide variety, and a welcome isolation from whoever else happened to be in the house.

* * *

July twenty-eight.

The fourth of the long, mostly miserable days that had passed since he arrived at Headquarters.

It was a sunny day, miraculously devoid of fog and rain. Well, as sunny as it ever got in London, at least, particularly of late, when the city seemed to have gotten stuck on Fall weather; fog and an icy drizzle were the norm, and to Harry, the reasons for it were not a mystery; Dementors had been hovering all over the place for weeks, feeding off the population. He'd read it in the papers. Felt it underneath his skin.

But today it was sunny out, a rarity and no mistake. Given that the old Black house was still as reluctant as ever to allow the scant sunlight through its windows, however, this otherwise notable change was less than worthy of mention, although Harry still stood by the window, peering out into the park past the layers of age-old dust and dirt encrusted on the panes. He had tried to open it once, but it was no use; for all he knew, the Blacks had put a Permanent Sticking Charm on it too.

He sighed, stepping away from the window and turning his gaze to the door instead. Healer Tonks had announced he was well enough to forego convalescing any longer and allowed him to leave his room at will at last, but he had no wish to do so, much as he hated staying in Sirius' room; facing the memories all over the house was worse than staying locked in around the clock and being plagued by the ones in his head.

However, by the time afternoon rolled by, being cooped up had turned into a rather familiar and much loathed sort of torture, and Harry found himself wandering the corridors once more, shuffling aimlessly ahead and trying not to think about times past.

It didn't quite work.

The memories alone were not the sole thing plaguing him, either; there was the Order itself as well. Everywhere he went, he kept 'accidentally' bumping into them. In the space of an hour he had seen and escaped Mad-Eye, Tonks, the Weasleys, McGonagall, Hestia Jones, Shacklebolt... The only Order members to be ever-so-conveniently absent were Lupin, Snape, and Dumbledore, it seemed; everyone else made a point to pop in and out of Headquarters at all times, fixing Harry with sympathetic looks, or else finding excuses to talk, trying to cheer him up with everyday issues that Harry did not find remotely interesting, or funny, or engaging.

The only subject he found interesting at the moment, and which was conversely also the only topic the Order members were avoiding as the plague, had to do with Voldemort's doings, who the boys were and how they were doing, and what the Order was doing to stop the attacks and disappearances from carrying on.

Their condolences slid off Harry as he realised that, as much as they claimed to care about Sirius, they had done nothing to help him while he was still alive and had needed help more than Harry did now. He had been alone, cooped up in a house he hated, while they were free to move about as they wished. If they had given one jot about Sirius, they would have had made clearing his name a priority, which never happened, did it?

And yet… He ought to have done something about it. In the very least, he should have done the very thing he was resenting them for. He should have _tried_, and he didn't.

He didn't care when he had a chance, and now he'd realised his mistake, it was too late to change anything.

At length, tired, angry at the world and seething at the Order's hypocrisy, he sought refuge in the library, a place he hadn't ever seen Sirius in and which the rest of the Order did not frequent either, as far as he knew. Then again, Sirius had usually been around Harry while he'd been here before, there was no telling if he'd really been here much or not; there was so much he hadn't even bothered to find out about his Godfather, and now, every chance of doing so was gone forever. At this moment, though, Harry was only grateful that he had no memories to connect Sirius with this place at all.

The door creaked ominously as he opened it, golden dust motes whirling in the dim sunlight that came through a large, grimy window, which took up most of the far wall.

Shelves upon shelves lined the walls on either side of him, which opened a little ways ahead and widened to make the room almost twice as large as the Dursleys' front room. Straight ahead, by the window, stood a large oaken desk and a few armchairs, as well as a fireplace that seemed not to be mounted on a wall, but stand quite on its own in the centre of the room before a large sofa. To his left and right, there were rows of heavy, black bookshelves stacked to breaking point with dusty books, dusty scrolls and even dustier maps.

Harry stepped cautiously into the room, a hand closing around his wand in his bathrobe pocket as he advanced into the library, which gave off the feeling of deliberate abandonment and neglect. He looked at the volumes on the shelves for a while, recognizing some titles, such as _Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts_, a worn copy of _The Beater's Bible_, _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_ – which was rather more worn than the copy in the Drawing Room, and others he had never laid eyes on before, such as: _Ancient Magics of the Albian Mages,_ or _Lightless: A Study on Dark Magic and Its Effects on Traditional Wizarding Morals_.

Checking his watch, he realised he had a good couple of hours before he had to inevitably face the Order again over dinner, and he started looking for something interesting to read. _A Practical Guide to the Dark Forces_ seemed to be an engaging read, so he pulled it out and placed it on a low coffee table. It was soon joined by _Spells To Save Time_, _When Everything Seems Hopeless—Magical Escapism and Its Uses_, and _Weather Magic: How to Make it Work for You_.

The leather armchairs turned out to be rather more comfortable than they appeared at first, especially after he had cast a handy dust-removing spell on them; they were made of dark green dragonhide, not the black he had thought them to be at first. Soon he was engrossed reading, and for a while managed to focus, forgetting momentarily about his troubles.

He was astounded how easy it was to concentrate; next thing he knew, it was nearly time for dinner. Still, he was reluctant to abandon his reading, and for a moment went as far as to consider skipping the meal altogether, before dismissing the idea. Mrs. Weasley had been acting strangely enough towards him as it was, and she would likely scour the house to find him if he wasn't there on time. He frowned at the book he was presently reading, wondering absently why his concentration had been broken. So far, the only sounds to be heard had been his occasional sniffling or the rustle of the pages as he turned them.

It was the creaking of the door that made him look up and turn his head towards it. A black-haired head was peering in, pale grey eyes blinking in the half-light.

"This must be the library," the boy stated. It was one of the McAlpin twins, and he was presently opening the door a little wider, seemingly with the intention to enter. Harry's mind supplied a name, and he decided that must be Connor. Behind him, he could see an identical raven-haired boy, adjusting his own frayed bathrobe, which had belonged to Ron a few years earlier.

Connor's eyes fell on Harry, and he looked him up and down appraisingly before walking inside with a nod to him, as curt and distant as before. He walked with a slight limp, and his left arm was still held in a sling, but otherwise he looked much better. Chris followed suit, addressing Harry with a light, "Hullo," holding himself rather straighter than was normal as he shuffled in after Connor.

"Hello," said Harry, putting his book down and unable to shake off the feeling that told him he ought to know who these boys were. The name McAlpin alone didn't seem to suffice. "Good to see you're doing better," he added, trying not to scowl at the look he had received, which had left him rather uncomfortable.

Chris gave him a small, wan smile that somehow made him look even more ill, and nodded.

"Healer Tonks is the best," he confirmed, in the same easy tone. "She just let us out an hour ago." He looked at Harry for a moment or two, in a subtler way than Connor had, but no less appraisingly. "We're exploring... huge place, this. Do you come here a lot?" he asked, once he appeared to have found what he was looking for, leaning lightly against the backrest of an armchair while Connor started browsing the shelves in silence.

"Not really, but I might begin. Some of these are interesting," Harry replied, gesturing at _When Everything Seems Hopeless—Magical Escapism and Its Uses_ and shifting a little in his chair. He hated being stared at. And doing smalltalk.

Chris leaned forward a little unsteadily, peering at the cover.

"Sounds like a fun read," he commented without much conviction, turning around as Connor, who seemed to have finished looking at the room, started making his way to the door. "We'll see you later," he said, and moments later they were out once more. Harry barely had the presence of mind to nod at them.

They had left the door ajar, and even as he moved to close it again, he heard their shuffling stop in the hallway.

"Well?" one of them asked from rather close by—Harry peered through the door where he could just make them out, certain it was Chris who was asking. He left the not-quite-question hanging in the air, while he examined the chipped paint on the wall.

"Well." Came the reply in a final, rather disappointed tone, as if Connor had been engaged in a lengthy assessment and found the results every bit as poor as he had expected.

There was a short silence, before the first twin spoke again.

"He _has_ been through a lot," he said, almost bracingly. Connor scoffed.

"So have we, right?" he retorted with a shrug. "And we're not the only ones, either; you've read the papers these past few days." A sigh, a headshake. "I don't know. He looks..." he trailed off, casting about for a suitable description.

"...Brittle?" Chris ventured, and Harry moved away from the doorway with a frown, his hand already groping inside his Emergency Escape Kit for his Invisibility Cloak. His curiosity was spiked, his temper rising despite his efforts to keep it down.

_**Brittle**__? I'll give you bloody brittle!_

Cloak thrown over his head, he peered around the doorway, to see Connor give Chris a wry sideways look.

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'fragile'," he said, shrugging, and succeeding in spiking Harry's temper all the more, along with his curiosity. "But aye, brittle will do nicely." He started limping down the hallway in the direction of the stairs. Harry quickly toed off his slippers and followed as quietly as he could.

"Maybe it's just that he's under the weather," Chris commented, gripping the banister tightly as he descended the stairs at turtle speed. Sweat was already pearling on his forehead, but his tone was light, as if they were doing nothing more important than discussing Quidditch odds. Two steps further down, Connor rolled his eyes with a scoff.

"Whatever."

"Well, it _is_ a possibility," Chris countered reasonably. Then, three painstakingly slow steps further down, "I actually found him to be a rather... rather likeable bloke."

"You would." Connor scratched the back of his neck with a black wand, looking thoroughly uninterested about Chris' views on Harry.

_What's that supposed to mean?_ Harry stopped on the upstairs landing, staring at them as if that were enough to make them explain themselves.

All he saw though, was Chris rolling his eyes.

"Why can't you just give him some time? A chance to prove your theories wrong? Everyone's entitled to a period of—" He cut himself off at Connor's pointed look. "Alright, alright..." he relented, wiping some sweat from his face. "I just can't see why you hate him so much."

_Yeah_, Harry thought angrily from the top of the stairs. _What did I do to piss you off too? _Part of him was hoping for a full explanation. His luck wasn't in the mood for helping, however.

As per usual.

"You know why," Connor muttered, his own temper visibly rising. His eyes were flashing, jaw set in an elegantly mulish expression that struck Harry as highly familiar. Not that it mattered at the moment.

Chris seemed unbothered by this apparent imminent outburst of temper. His tone was as light as ever, as was his shrug.

"All I'm saying is you're a bit too harsh in judging him—" He raised a hand in the face of Connor's growl, conceding the point, "—all _right_, you say you're not, and I believe you, I do—but... he's escaped from Voldemort, what, three times now?"

"Five," Connor replied grudgingly, to Harry's surprise. "I do count the thing with the diary in '92 as one. And you're forgetting that dumb stunt at the Ministry those few weeks back. The Sodhead was there then too." It was as if Harry had personally affronted him by surviving.

Harry's frown deepened; how many people knew of the Chamber of Secrets fiasco? Chris, however, gave Connor a lopsided smirk.

"That's thrice more than we have, isn't it, little brother?" he retorted. Connor snorted, but said nothing. Chris tried another vein, stopping his descent to catch his breath.

"He _did_ win the Triwizard Tournament though, didn't he? That's got to be some manner of an achievement; you have to give him that."

"Bloody—He went through all the easy parts!" Connor snapped, making Harry give a start. "How many times do I have to tell you? It was all staged! _Anyone_ could have ruddy done that, _we_ could have done it, for Merlin's sakes!" Chris held up a bandaged, placating hand.

"Alright, so perhaps it _was_ staged, and maybe _anyone _could've done it," he conceded. "Just _what_ are you going apeshit over?"

There was a silence during which Connor glared at the carved wood of the railing, jaw clenched. When he raised his eyes, they shone icy grey, piercing as they met his brother's. Harry expected him to shout. He did not. Instead, his tone was quite level and calm—which somehow made Harry think he was angrier than before—when he spoke.

"Because he's all we've got." The statement hung in the air, heavy, definite, disappointed. Betrayed, even. Connor continued to keep his eyes fixed on Chris'. Quietly, almost bitterly, he added, "He's our only hope."

Chris said nothing in return. For a long moment, he just returned Connor's intense stare with a marginally milder one of his own. To Harry, it was as if an entire shouting match were taking place. He could feel the tension, the air almost crackling with suppressed energy. Chris then averted his eyes, conceding defeat. Giving himself a little shake, he resumed his climb down, concentrating on the steps with a drawn face. Connor merely shrugged his good shoulder, as if to state his unspoken point was made.

"Is that roast I smell?" Connor asked abruptly, sniffing the air as he too, resumed his descent. All traces of anger, all intensity was gone from his tone, which was now as light and casual as Chris' had been earlier.

"Aye. Mrs. Weasley does know her cooking, doesn't she?" Chris replied, taking another step down. He too, had recovered his light, almost carefree tone, making light of a situation that was anything but; incredibly, it seemed to be working. The crackling tension disappeared, remembered by nobody but Harry, who couldn't care less about it.

"That she does. Go on, peg it. At the rate you're going it'll be midnight by the time we get there."

"Says you," Chris answered, giving Connor a weak shove. "I have to keep waiting for your slow arse…"

Harry watched them bicker all the way from the upstairs landing, until they vanished from view, after saluting the portrait of Mrs. Black, which merely sputtered and stared, but did not yell. He did not dwell on that strange development, however, most profitably occupied glaring at their retreating forms, while clutching the wooden railing, in a fair attempt at turning it into splinters with his bare hands. Anger aside, the encounter, if it could be called that, had left a very sour taste in his mouth, as well as a hurt sort of feeling; he had been scrutinised by two who apparently knew more than they let on—and he had been found wanting.

He was decidedly intrigued by them now, and resolved to get to the bottom of the matter as soon as possible.

* * *

"One thing's certain," Tonks said, picking herself up from the floor for the third time, after having almost fallen through a gaping hole and all the way to the cellar. What was left of it, at any rate. "The safe house doesn't quite live up to its name, does it?"

"It's not quite a house anymore either," Bill quipped from upstairs, poking his head through the considerable gap in the ceiling. "And I don't reckon it has been one for a good long while."

"A pity," Tonks commented, tossing a broken broomstick aside. "I wouldn't say no to spending a few weeks here. The beach up close, a nice rustic town in the background, and Blackpool has muggle concerts all the time…"

Bill snorted, shaking his head. If he applied his famed honesty to himself, however, he wouldn't mind babysitting Moody's lads for a few days, either. The town didn't even have the usual Dementor fog around it, and it was indeed appealing to the eye. Peaceful. Safe.

Except for the bit where it wasn't.

"I did find something those kids would appreciate getting, Moody," he announced to Mad-Eye, cutting him off before he could rag at them for not being on the lookout. No sense of humour, that one…

"What's that?" Moody asked from the front room, which he had been examining for traps. Bill was right; the safe house Connor directed him to was torn to little bits of rubble at least a fortnight ago. While on the outside it looked whole and in good shape, the moment anyone entered, it became evident it was nothing but a trap. They must have had undone three score spells aimed at disarming and capturing whoever stepped into the place, some of which were nothing short of deadly.

"My favourite sort of find," Bill called from upstairs. "There's a trunk here, but it's got spells on it the likes of which I've never seen."

Moody clambered up the battered staircase, to a section of the house where a library or study of some sort had been fitted. All valuables, if there were any in the first place, had been taken, and it became clear at once to Mad-Eye why the chest Bill had found was still here; it was glowing a dangerous hue of neon orange, vibrating as though in warning as Bill cast detection spell after detection spell.

"I can't see what's in it," he growled. This, was definitely an interesting find.

Twenty minutes later, Moody realised why the Death Eaters had left it alone; he would have to resort to some of his more creative solutions if he wanted to take it with him. All Bill managed to figure out, was that the spells placed on it were put there by Angus McAlpin.

"Sorry Moody, we have to go." Kingsley interrupted Moody's stubborn attempts to so much as move the trunk half an hour later. He and Tonks were expected at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, for the weekly reports all the Divisions of the said Department delivered.

"You go ahead, then," Moody answered, puffing as he tried to pry the lid open with an iron bar. Resorting to Muggle methods was a last resort he and Bill were giving a whirl, but they might as well have tried to open it using a drinking straw: it held fast, and did not budge.

"You're not staying behind because of a box," Kingsley countered in his deep bass. Soothing as his voice usually was, its tone was definitive, and brooked no space for arguments. "You two can't stay behind on your own."

"The kids need to see this thing," Moody grumbled, his scarred face uncharacteristically flushed. "All right," he muttered after a moment's thought. "Here's what we'll do…"

* * *

The cubicles in the Auror Division at the Ministry of Magic were deserted. Not one red-robed individual could be seen anywhere, either, and the black-robed Hit Wizards were nowhere to be found, either.

Other Departments fared similarly; Obliviators, Unspeakables, officers from the Disaster Squadron, all absent from the posts they usually manned.

For a half hour only.

One room in the Ministry, however, was bursting full with wizards and witches. Everyone directly connected with fighting the War, at any level, was present there. Yet they might as well have been absent; a complete silence permeated the room, which had been magically enlarged to fit the entirety of the Ministry's task force. A long table dominated the chamber, at which the Heads of the Divisions involved in this meeting sat, all eyes turned to the centre, where a grizzled wizard surveyed them sternly. Around the table, uncharacteristically quiet and arranged in teams, sat the Aurors, Hit Wizards, Magical Law Enforcement Officers, Obliviators, Muggle Liaisons. A sea of grim faces, which showed the strain and worry of the past few weeks.

It had been taxing for all; completely unprepared due to Fudge's terrible mistake, and suddenly dunked headfirst into a war when You-Know-Who was brought into the light once again, there had been little to no rest for any Department at the Ministry. And those present in Meeting Room One at the moment were amongst those for whom the mere concept of rest had become alien.

And yet, the war raging in the country, the attacks and disappearances and the general lack of safety anywhere were not their only troubles. Division within their own ranks, sabotage, even spies had been uncovered, starting with the Minister for Magic himself. He had kept the truth from them for so long after all, had he not?

While former friends surveyed each other in silence, listening to the orders issued by their superiors in matters of surveillance and safety, the question, unasked, hung nevertheless in the air: whose side is everyone else on?

"Now we have addressed all major issues, we shall hear the reports on our progress so far, starting with the Sirius Black Inquiry," Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the DMLE, announced in his usual growl from the centre of the room. "Amelia Bones is heading the investigation, as we well know." He waved a hand at a witch sitting at the table, turning the attention to her.

"Thank you, Scrimgeour," Bones said, taking off her monocle and unrolling a sheaf of parchment. "At present, my team and I have been busy tallying the evidence and official statements regarding the case of Sirius Black, former team leader in the Hit Wizard Division. We are reviewing his entire known history, for anything that could point to an involvement with the Death Eaters prior to the Potters' murders and the subsequent murder spree he allegedly committed. However," she added, shaking her head, "there is nothing conclusive to report yet. There are many inconsistencies throughout his file; entire entries have been taken out, apparently misplaced in the filing, or so I have been told. And that's without considering the fact that there is no material evidence to back up what is in the files—Apparently, Black's wand has been misplaced as well." A babble of voices broke out at this.

"I _told you_, but did you listen?" Tonks, one of the Aurors who had been pushing for clearing Black's name, asked loudly, turning to glare at Archie Proudfoot. Everywhere around her, people were stating their own opinions, getting louder. Bones held up a hand, to shut them up. Controversial as Black's status was, she was still heading the investigation, not them.

"I am not making a definitive statement yet," Bones said loudly, which quieted down the Aurors and Hit Wizards considerably. Of them all, they had been focused feverishly on a manhunt for two years—searching far and wide for Sirius Black, the deranged mass-murdered. One who had been one of them. One who might well not have done any of the things he was accused of. One who, if proven innocent, would perhaps also be proven a scapegoat used by the Minister to blind them in 1981… and then once more until a month ago, to cover up not the proverbial Pandora's Box, but a Pandora's Pit. The possible implications were endless, and they were right in being mistrustful. Another reason why Bones was taking this matter to its every last consequence.

"Up until now, I can't yet safely say he was innocent of the crimes imputed," she resumed firmly. "I cannot safely say he was guilty of the crimes, either. He was never given Veritaserum to get the story out of him, although I have heard rumours from the wardens that he requested it several times while in Azkaban. The material evidence is almost nonexistent, and what little we do have to work with has been handled so much over the years it will take additional time to tell whether or not it is true; Black was not given a trial either, and as most of his interrogations were handled in the presence of Dementors, what was said there cannot be taken as solid fact without additional proof to back it up.

Currently, the sole backing proof of his alleged crimes rests upon witness statements. The majority of these statements is not conclusive, either, and cannot be confirmed with the witnesses, as these were mostly muggles, obliviated by the Junior Minister of Disasters himself on site, less than an hour after the mass-murder in York occurred—"

Once more, a babble of voices rose, though no heated words were uttered. Tonks had resumed her pastime of making origami figures out of her parchment roll, glowering at the floor, and everyone else limited themselves to muttering a comment here and there. If Fudge was the only 'real' witness to Black's mass-murder… He could have made anything up. Perhaps as shortly as two months ago, nobody would have believed it possible. Now, however…

"The only statements we shall be able to confirm are those which were deposed by Minister Fudge, who was on site and directed the capture; Albus Dumbledore, who himself gave evidence of Black's role as Secret Keeper, and those members of the DMLE who participated in his capture and imprisonment," Madam Bones said. "However, his list of crimes has been reduced. Pettigrew has been sighted in no less than three occasions, and although we have not had the time to confirm these sightings, it is going a long way towards proving him innocent of the mass-murder, at least. The Potter boy said himself Pettigrew brought You-Know-Who back, and if we go by his testimony, and add to it the fact Black was a member of the Order of the Phoenix—assuming it exists—then we might surmise he was not guilty as charged. I shall issue a detailed report as my inquiry goes on."

By the time Bones turned the floor over to Scrimgeour once more, the expressions of those present mirrored their thoughts once more. Was it possible they had made such a terrible mistake, and further, allowed endless charges to be pinned on the same man without so much as questioning the involvement of other, allegedly innocent wizards and witches?

It certainly seemed that way at the moment.

Moments later, the uncertainty about the Black situation was shunted to a second plane of their attention, however: The reports that followed had to do with more recent happenings, which were too many to count.

Dementors had swarmed south from Inverarray, passing through small towns and villages and cities alike, causing panic, mass hysteria, destruction, and chaos amidst the wizarding and muggle population alike. Their progress could be traced throughout the isles, spreading relentlessly like a plague.

One they had not found a solution for, not in three hundred years, when the Dementors first started breeding out of control. As the Unspeakables put it, they were no nearer finding an effective way to destroy Dementors than they were to walking on water without a spell.

The team of Hit Wizards assigned to clearing DalRiada estate of its Inferi infestation did have some good news to report, as far as news went; The late Robert McFusty and his wife Jeanie had been successfully contained, and their bodies would be delivered to the family within the week for burial. Being an influential, ancient family with no known affiliation with the Dark Side, the Ministry had made it a priority to return the last remains of their eldest son to them.

"The number of non-Dementor attacks on Muggles and Muggle-borns have increased dramatically in the last week alone," Emmeline Vance informed, by way of an introduction to her report. "While the McAlpins' murders a handful of days back have been the most shocking of these events, they were well-known to be active fighters against the Dark Side. And yet, in the past fortnight Muggle-born members of our community have disappeared, their houses ransacked and looted—without apparent reason. This is most unusual for the Death Eaters. While they will usually make a point of killing and torturing Muggle-borns, up until two weeks ago they had rarely targeted anyone who was not opposed to them. Now they are targeting school children and their families. Some of the disappeared were not even going to Hogwarts yet, or else had no apparent quarrel with the Death Eaters."

"Other than being Muggle-born, you mean?" Savage commented. Some around him voiced their agreement to that.

"The missing witches and wizards are mostly youngsters, none older than 15," Vance replied. "What use would You-Know-Who have for children?"

"Whatever it is, I doubt it's to open a nursery," said Tonks grimly.

"He's taken a four-year-old," Shacklebolt cut in, raising a glowing piece of parchment from the table, which was the form the DMLE dealt with emergency calls. "Two attacks, the last not ten minutes ago— the caller said the Death Eaters are still there, in Newcastle."

Instantly, the hereto orderly group assembled snapped into motion; the meeting was dissolved without another word, team leaders called their subordinates to them, Scrimgeour started barking orders, and moments later, the entire DMLE poured out of the double doors, hurrying to get their equipment and to the Apparition Areas.

* * *

"She's breathin' alright. She'll live, I reckon."

Rasmus nodded, half disappointed at the assessment. If she had died, he would have had to look for a replacement immediately, and perhaps, with luck, it would have been better versed in duelling than this one.

There was a tug under his foot. Rasmus looked down, lifting the heel of his boot just long enough for Mulciber to free up a thin golden chain from under his sole. He watched as the wizard wiped the blood from it with his sleeve, grinning at the glittery star-shaped pendant hanging from it.

Petty thievery, yet another aspect of the Death Eaters' behaviour he loathed. No matter how much they might excel in subjugating their targets, no matter how wealthy they were, the greedy looting that followed a capture was inevitable, and, in Rasmus' eyes, a far greater stain on their honour than the blood of their victims now splattered on the floor.

"Put her with the other one," he instructed, watching impassively as the pair of Muggle-borns were gagged and bound together, only to be systematically searched by six pairs of hands.

For _valuables_.

The things he put up with, honestly.

He gave them a few minutes, looking around the considerable destruction surrounding him. Who would have thought a dog could give them so much trouble? A non-magical, common mutt no less, which now lay near the stairs to the upper level. The other half of it was still smoking, somewhere in the kitchen.

It was sad, he mused, when a common dog proved to be a better adversary than its owners.

"If you're quite done," he interrupted impatiently, clearing his throat as Rodolphus Lestrange made to start searching the dining room for silverware. "I do not have all night, and these two have to be taken to the Pit before they do bleed to death. Your Master wants them alive, and I highly recommend you deliver them before dawn."

He resolved to look for an extra addition to the collection later, before he stalked out the Longbottoms' house, if only to give himself something to do to while away the boredom.

All in all, it had been a rather disappointing day, and it promised more of the same.

"Next time, we get the ankle-biters _after_ we get the older ones," he muttered to Lestrange, who was cradling the unconscious child in her arms, an aberration of a pantomime, mockery to a mother's loving caress. A vampire would have looked less shocking. Bellatrix could surpass such a creature's hungry look, holding the four-year-old girl like a trophy, impatient to rouse her from the Stunning Spell she had been hit with.

Rasmus wished briefly she were not necessary to the successful completion of the raids; but much as he despised her, he had to admit she was an asset in the field. Even despite the fact she was entirely too wand-happy, too deranged, too loud. And more often than not, killed the victims intended for _capture_. Alive. Which did not mean 'in bloody _bits_'.

He only hoped the Longbottoms would provide a more entertaining close to his evening.

* * *

"FIIIILTH! MUCK! HALF-BREEDS! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Such was the buoyant welcome to Headquarters Moody received upon opening the door and dumping the trunk – along with the torn-off wall and floor it was attached to – in the hallway.

"Oh pack it in!" he snapped, clunking to the portrait to help Bill wrestle the billowing curtains shut. All it seemed to accomplish was to spur the old hag to greater heights, and to turn up her volume.

"TRAITORS! TRAITORS IN THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!"

"SHUT UP, DAMN YOU!" Harry had come up from the kitchens, where the smells wafting up suggested Moody had arrived halfway through dinner. Was it really _that_ late?

The curtains stopped flapping around, and with a last, deafening screech, Mrs. Black obeyed. It didn't keep her from lolling her tongue out with a hateful expression aimed at Harry, who glared right back at her, silently daring her to carry on yelling.

"How do you do it, kid?" Moody asked, chuckling in that harsh way of his.

"Dunno," Harry muttered. "I'm loud enough, I s'pose. What's that?" He approached the trunk, a hint of curiosity flitting across his face as his eyes fell on the McAlpin crest on the lid, but it was gone in the next moment, replaced by the closed expression he had taken to favour of late.

"It's none of your business," another voice supplied from behind. Moody, who had been in the process of opening his mouth to deliver a rather more diplomatic variant on the same, decided to forego answering and nodded at Connor in greeting instead, who was coming slowly closer, the threadbare slippers on his feet making a shuffling sound as he advanced.

Harry suppressed a sigh. "Just wondering," he muttered, turning to leave, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

Mrs. Black stopped lolling her tongue out at Harry, turning her attention to the other boy. Her loathsome expression arranged itself into one of disbelief, her yellowish skin paling even further. Not that anyone noticed.

"_You._.." It was little more than a whisper, little less than a hiss. Unnoticed by the rest, who were busy heaving the trunk towards the stairs, Connor gave her a small smirk, raising an eyebrow in confirmation. There was no yelling, though a pointed look alone was enough to set her off these days; Mrs. Black just gaped at him, eyes so wide it looked as if they could bounce out at any moment.

"It's pretty much all we could rescue," Mad-Eye growled, his magical eye fixed on Harry, while the other was fixed questioningly on Connor, who shrugged one shoulder in response and gave the trunk a once-over.

Upon seeing the crest, his face fell, fears confirmed; the safe house was not an option.

"The place is a wreck, kid," Moody added, sounding almost gruff as he placed a gnarled hand on Connor's shoulder. "Completely ruined. They got to it at least two weeks ago. I'm sorry."

Harry slowed in his already reluctant shuffle back to the kitchen. He could feel Connor's glance on the back of his neck, but was too curious to care.

"Gone all to cock," Connor muttered. _"Again_."

"There's always Hogwarts, kid," Moody said bracingly. Harry didn't need to look to know what the answer to that last was. It was further confirmed by Moody's, "Call Chris over, while Bill and I get this thing upstairs—I hope it's not a crock of rubbish we've been lugging around half the country."

"What's in it?" Connor asked.

"We couldn't open it," Bill provided. "I just hope it's not something loaded with blasting curses. Mad-Eye couldn't see through it, and we can't levitate it."

There was a silence. Harry, impossibly curious now, debated staying to see what was going on, but Connor shattered his plans.

"I'll get Chris. I reckon I know how to open it."

Moody grunted his agreement, and soon the scraping of the trunk was heard again, along with more grunting from both wizards as they heaved the trunk up again. Mrs. Weasley, who had come out of the kitchen to see who had arrived, made a point of ushering Harry back downstairs to finish up his meal.

It was a lonely affair, despite the fact Mrs. Weasley was present. Chris and Connor excused themselves and left to their room to talk to Moody, but it didn't make much of a difference from before. They were mostly quiet, had become customary at every meal they had taken together; think as he might it was caused to some extent by what had happened earlier, Harry wasn't surprised. Whatever their reasons for their rather contemptible behaviour towards him, he couldn't really begrudge them for it, if he was honest and fair, hard as it was when catching the distinct feeling his mere presence sufficed to vex them, though they were good at hiding it.

He himself wasn't in a chatty mood, hadn't been in a long time, and they hadn't lost just one part of their family—they had lost every single one, and it was showing. He at least had the Order to lean on, impossible to bear as their company was sometimes, and he had friends—even if he hadn't really heard of them in a while. The McAlpin twins had nobody at all. Except Moody, perhaps, but he was the last person Harry would pour his heart out to.

Bill joined them at the kitchen shortly after, but aside from informing his parents that Tonks, Shacklebolt and most everyone with a position at the Ministry were at a meeting and would report to the Order when they got the chance to, he held tight about the trunk and what he and Moody had been doing all day, preferring to stick to the proverbial smalltalk and light subjects when talking to Harry.

Harry didn't bother asking about what the trunk contained, as he would likely not get an answer, and focused on finishing up, hoping to manage to provide some answers to his questions on his own.

He bade Bill and Mrs. Weasley good-night, making his way upstairs as quietly as he could. The door to the bedroom he and Ron had shared previously was ajar, and voices were coming out of it. He briefly considered throwing on his invisibility cloak, but discarded the idea; he would be spotted by Moody for sure, and that was one ear-bashing he could certainly do without. So he contented himself with straining his ears, and going at snailpace while pretending not to be listening.

"… shot to shite," Connor was saying, and he sounded frustrated.

"The safe house was supposed to be unplottable and everything," Chris threw in. "How did they get in there?"

Connor scoffed, "I reckon we ought to worry less about that and focus on where the hell we're going instead."

"Hogwarts—" Moody started, but cut himself off.

"Is a mingin' rat's nest," came next. Connor was quickly getting frustrated, to judge by the markedness of the distinctive Scottish lilt that was suddenly present in every word.

"It's not so bad," Moody tried again. "And it _is_ safe. Harry's been going there for years, and—"

"Spare us the load of rot, will ye?" Connor snapped. "I know well enough what's been goin' on with _that one_, I don't need to hear owt about it." Harry took another step up, quite unwittingly, at the mention of his name. This, he wanted to hear.

"Alright," Moody relented. He sounded placating, and it seemed to work.

_Sod it._

"Just… roll it around for a bit, it's really our best bet. Unless you'd rather stay here."

"Like hell," both boys chorused, as Harry came into view of the room. He tried to go slow, hoping he would be ignored, but three sets of eyes were on him almost at once. He nodded at them, seeing them sitting on the beds, an open trunk between them, but knew his hopes at eavesdropping were sod-all squared.

And sure enough…

"Move along, now," Connor prompted, flicking a hand at the door, which shut in his face with a slam.

* * *

The next morning did not bring any improvements with it, starting with the weather. A storm raged outside, the clap of thunder unhelpful as ever to make Harry's nightmares less vivid. Kept awake half the night brooding, rehashing his misadventures, the storm that unleashed when he had finally managed something more than a doze only worsened matters.

At one point, waking up from a particularly nasty dream with a scream, he fancied he heard an echoing scream coming from outside his room—but that was impossible; he was the only one in that storey.

The lousy night only set the theme for the day, it seemed: Breakfast wasn't much better, which he suspected had to do with the fact Connor didn't look much rested at all either, and was in a much similar mood to his; rotten.

Only, Harry had spent half the night brooding himself to frustration, and was in no accommodating mood. Consequently, he had little patience with the glances sent his way, which were starting to feel more like silent challenges than anything.

Challenging back was becoming increasingly tempting, a confrontation harder to avoid.

A letter arrived however, from Gringotts, and soon Headquarters, which for some reason contained more people than Harry remembered hearing come in during the night, was all of a flurry of activity. The letter, which required the twins' presence in Diagon Alley the next day to weigh their wands or some such grout, was passed from hand to hand, and hurried plans were made to meet the appointment. A rather sleep-deprived Tonks explained to Harry it had to do with some vaults not needing a key to be opened, but the owner's wand being used for that purpose. And for this process, the twins _had_ to be present.

The possibility of not taking them to Diagon Alley was briefly discussed, but Bill squashed that one early on.

"You don't want to stand the goblins up," he told them. "If they say weigh your wand a certain date, you _have_ to be there. It's a matter of respect to them, and you know how nasty they can get if they feel they've been wronged."

The prospect of leaving the Black house for a few hours did the trick for the twins, who looked rather cheered up once it was made clear they had to go. Mrs. Weasley then said something about having to buy her kids' and Harry's supplies for the upcoming school year, and the twins needed to be fitted for robes as well—all the clothes they possessed were the tatty ones Harry and Ron had discarded over time.

Harry decided it was time to leave them to it, stomping up to his room in a fouler mood than before. While he had had his share of outings and even camping trips over the past couple of weeks, being cooped up in the gloomy old house with nothing but nightmares for company was awful, and though he understood the need for it, that didn't mean he had to like it—and yes, he was rather jealous over the fact the twins would get to leave Headquarters for a few hours.

Not bothering to be quiet about it, he slammed the door to Sirius' room shut, throwing himself onto the bed with a huff.

"Oh, if it isn't the Potter boy," a mocking voice drawled lazily from the far wall. Harry glared at a hereto empty frame, which was now occupied by none other than Phineas Nigellus.

_Figures_.

It seemed Dumbledore had returned to his habit of spying on him. Not unexpected, as far as things had gone up until now, but at the moment Harry was not in the mood for anyone, much less being understanding or civil towards anyone.

"Miffed today, are we?"

Least of all Phineas Nigellus, the rotten bastard.

"Get stuffed, you," Harry snapped.

"Getting smart now, eh? Mind your manners, and who you're talking to, you little rascal. That good-for-nothing great-great-_grandson_ of mine was just the sa—OY, you little lout!" The last bit of that was muffled, and nothing followed. Who'd have known that to shut Phineas up, all he had to do was turn the frame around?

"I said: _get stuffed_," he snarled again, peeved to the extreme. On his way back to bed, he stubbed his toe, which did nothing to improve his mood.

Hopping on one foot and cursing under his breath didn't do much to mitigate his frustration, particularly not when he lost his balance and toppled over, out of breath.

"Bloody hell!" he yelled at the empty room, fuming as he raffled himself up, holding on to the wall—

Only to land on the floor again a split second later when it gave way.

The oath that was well on its way out of his mouth died before it was uttered; he had been leaning on one of the faded Gryffindor banners permanently stuck to the wall, which was now gone. A gaping hole was there in its stead, stretching into a dark corridor or passage of some sort.

All traces of anger forgotten, Harry sat up again, blinking slowly at the dark gap before him. Stuffy air and some dust motes reached his nose, making it prickle, but he paid it no mind, focusing instead on remembering all Sirius had told him about the house; there was a garden, he'd said, but he'd not seen it since he was twelve—his parents had done something to it, so that whenever he arrived at the house, he could not so much as find the door to it; the windows had been charmed to look outside, yes, but could not be opened, by magic or force; Harry racked his brains, trying to remember. He had not paid too much attention to Sirius' stories back then, too busy hating the house and its filthy, dinghy feel, to pay him any heed. He could not remember ever hearing a _mention _of this passage, or where it led to.

He made up his mind, eyes trying to pierce the darkness, ears pricked up for any tell-tale sound coming from within. His wand was out before he knew it, and he was padding cautiously down the passage the next moment, scanning it for dangers in the beam of his wand. There was no sign of any sort of peril whatsoever, just a gaping black hole that smelled of old dust and lack of airing. The floor a few feet inside, though, showed marks in the layers of dust, pawprints… and footprints.

He looked long at them, something tightening in his chest that made him want to turn back and carry on moping. And yet... Sirius had known of this passage. That meant it was _safe_, wasn't it?

First good news of the day.

Harry's scowl faded, a feeling of excitement bubbling up from deep inside him, of the curious, exploring sort he had not felt in a while. He turned back, to trade his slippers for his trainers, and made sure his door was securely locked before stepping into the passage again.

The beam of his wand fell upon smooth stone walls, his footfall muffled as he advanced warily, eyes trying to pierce the pitch blackness ahead.

He walked slowly, yet remained unhindered by obstacles of any sort; there were no spiders the size of plates lurking, no doxies, or boggarts, or anything other than-- _crunch_.

He'd stepped on something. Lowering the beam of his wand, his eyes fell on a crumpled piece of parchment under his foot, old and faded. Harry picked it up, wiping the dust off it for further examination; it was an envelope, so old he could almost not make out the address. Looking left and right in case some of the house's old monsters came round, and feeling guilty for reading Sirius' old post, Harry carefully opened the envelope, taking out a single sheet and smoothing it out to read. It tore at the centre as he unfolded it, brittle after years lying there.

_But_… Now Harry could not help wondering about it. What was it doing here? Did anyone else know of this passage? Where did it lead to?

He'd find that out, but first things first. He turned his attention to the letter once more.

The writing on it was also faded, written in something of a coppery hue which made it all the harder to read. He squinted, trying to make out the words, but all he could establish at the time, was that the distinctive, flowing handwriting looked rather familiar. While he stood there, trying to remember where he'd seen that sort of handwriting before, he did manage to make out a date—December 19, 1974, which sent his heart racing again; Sirius had been barely 15 when he received it, possibly during the Christmas holidays in his fourth year; it was well likely the letter was sent by his father.

Harry briefly considered turning back to peruse the letter in a better lighting, but a muffled noise of a door closing and footsteps nearby made him forget all about it. He pocketed it, tiptoeing further down the passage, stepping here and there on what felt like paper, but he didn't give the things littering the floor anything more than passing thought, concentrated instead on where the noises were coming from.

"… do you think?" It was muffled, but gave him a close enough direction to follow. Harry sped up a slight, taking a left turn as the passage split—and suddenly it opened into a niche, where he could see slivers of light shining through a couple of cracks in the wall, near the floor… and hear everything as though he were in the room… Whichever room it was he was listening in to.

"I don't know." It was one of the McAlpin twins, Chris. Harry pressed his ear to the wall, hardly daring to breathe. There was the creaking sag of a mattress, and locking and silencing charms were cast. At the door only, because Harry could still hear everything.

"We _have_ to be there, eleven sharp," Connor said. A second sag of the mattress was heard, followed by a heavy sort of sigh, familiar in itself. Harry decided to stop speculating about why it was familiar, but couldn't help being intrigued; here were two boys he obviously shared some sort of connection with, Connor most strongly.

He was aware that this was a new development, and yet, the demeanour and expressions of the boys were familiar, as if he had seen them before…

Except for the bit where he hadn't.

Ever.

It was maddening.

"We _could_ use the fresh air," Chris offered, but he didn't sound very convinced of it.

"Aye, we could." Connor was silent for a moment, then added, "I hate this place. It's so…"

"Shitty," Chris finished for him.

"That sums it up nicely."

"No wonder he went bloody crackers in here. I feel I'll follow trends soon." The conversational tone wasn't lost on Harry, but what they were on about was.

"Who cares about _him_?" Connor snapped. Harry frowned. "He deserved every bit of what he got."

"Didn't."

"_Did_." Connor spat it out, a mouthful of hatred that took Harry aback.

"No, he bloody well _didn't_, and you know it." How Chris could carry on so lightly when Connor was clearly hacked off, Harry didn't know. He wouldn't have managed, even if he didn't have a clue who it was they were arguing about.

"_We_ don't, that's for sure." And thus, the topic changed abruptly, even if Connor's bitterness hadn't changed one jot.

"I'll give you that," Chris conceded.

"He d—What the hell?" Connor said, followed by the squeak of the mattress. Harry pressed his ear all the harder against the wall.

"Whatsit?"

"He's out there." Connor sounded annoyed.

"Who?"

"Potter." A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine. How could he know that? He hadn't made a single noise.

Or had he?

There was a sound of shuffling, a door unlocking, opening. Harry held his breath, closing his eyes. Quite distinctly, he could see in his mind's eye, how Connor scanned the empty hallway, then went to check the staircases.

"I don't get it," he said upon returning. The door closed again, was locked, the spells placed on it once more. "I could've sworn he was on the other side of this wall." It came from very close to where Harry was listening, and the small noises that followed were surely caused by Connor running his hands along the wall.

"You _really _need to sleep more," Chris said. "It's getting to you—" It was getting to Harry for sure.

"I'll be glad when we're out of here."

"I won't argue that," Chris conceded. "And on that note, where _are_ we going next? The Blackpool house is out of the question. Home isn't an option, either."

"We're…" Connor didn't finish. Chris cut him off.

"We _could_ try going to Hogwarts—"

"Oh yeah, that's _really_ clever," Connor said derisively. At least he didn't limit his sarcasm to him only, Harry noted. The only difference seemed to be that Chris wasn't moved at all by it. "Why don't we hand ourselves over to Voldemort while we're at it? That would save everyone a whole lot of trouble."

"I didn't mean it that way, you dobber—But honestly, what options _do_ we have? They did away with the Blackpool house," Chris argued back. "It was supposed to be impossible to find."

"Supposed to being the very operative term," Connor muttered. "There's still the Welsh house…"

"You haven't told anyone about it," Chris said, and there was a definite tone of reproach there. "What if they got there too?"

"They won't have." Connor sounded certain.

"How come?"

"Gramps knew the Blackpool house would be taken sooner or later." A shuffling sound, followed by the rasp of latches being undone, the hollow thud of wood on wood. "He didn't tell me to go there…He said to go to Wales."

"He…?" Chris sounded aghast. "You _lied_ to the Professor? Gramps--"

"He _knew_, Chris." Connor sounded bitter.

"Connor." There was a silence, but Harry could feel the tension crackling in the air, the finality of the tone. "What _did_ he tell you, the other day?"

"A load of rubbish," was the answer. Harry had a flash of a library, pale green eyes boring into his; anger, fear, regret—Knowledge, used as punishment. Or was it as a last resort?

"Don't give me that hogwash." Oh, Chris did have the same explosive temper as his brother. "What happened? After the horses got stolen and the Dementors attacked?"

What? Harry backed away, stunned. He had not given the horses another thought, or indeed cared to tell the boys some of their herd was still alive. Unbidden, he started rehashing the events in Inverarray, which he had not bothered to pick apart either. In his defence, he was out of it for days, and had not wanted to think of the matter overmuch. Now however, he came to an abrupt realisation: If he'd told the horses to go to their masters, if he'd only known he was so close to where the McAlpins lived, if he'd only realised what it was Voldemort was on about… He could have taken the horses there in time, and nobody would have died.

If only.

Harry didn't want to listen on, feeling ill to his stomach. Did Connor know of their link? Did he know what Harry had just realised? Was that the reason for his attitude? If so, he had every right—Harry _should_ have done something.

"I… Just drop it, alright? It doesn't matter what he said, it's all rubbish anyway." Maybe he didn't want to listen, but he could still hear every word.

"Is it?" Chris erupted hotly, and Harry heard him get up."I get it, you don't want to talk about it, but I need to know! You were holed up there with him for _hours_, and then the horses bloody vanished—"

"I _know_," Connor mumbled.

"Then those Dementors showed up, and—"

"And now everyone is dead." The tone was final, yet defeated.

"Well I'm not, in case you haven't bloody noticed, so don't act like you've got to do this by yourself," Chris snapped. There was no answer, however. "I miss them too," came next, so softly Harry thought he'd imagined it at first. "And Gramps…"

"Could have gotten all of us out, but didn't." Connor's voice was half a whisper. Harry caught it anyway. "He _let _himself be killed, Chris. He _let it happen_. He left us stranded."

"He didn't." Now Chris was snarling, threatening. Harry heard something crack, a result of the anger in the room. "Don't you _dare_ turn it around on him!"

"It's the truth. Break as many windows as you want, it won't change shite. I saw it, as well as you."

"I saw him fight to protect us! I saw him die so we wouldn't!"

"He knew they were coming beforehand. I was outside with him, we figured it out," Connor said quietly. "And he chose to stay behind. He left us alone."

There was no answer.

"I'm sorry."

Harry decided he'd heard more than enough. While he could not understand all the implications, he knew he had no right to speculate. It didn't keep him from being intrigued, certainly, but even as the silence in the room stretched, tense and mournful, a part of him knew exactly what was going on; he could feel the pain, the longing, the uncertainty and insecurity crawling under his skin, permeating every thought, mingling with remorse, regret, self-blame and a rather unhealthy dose of anger. This, he knew; the impotence, the what-ifs, the if onlys, the despair and loneliness that gripped you so tightly breathing was made impossible at times. And while this cluster of emotions was also familiar, he could pinpoint it with precision this time; he had felt the same since Sirius died.

He heard them move at last, taking advantage of the small noises in the room -- some of which sounded entirely too much like sobs to be comfortable with -- to steal down the passage, throat tightening the farther he got. The ever-increasing distance did not help ease his mind in any way, nor did the feelings fade at all.

He advanced stealthily, aware, despite how much worse he now felt, of the need for wariness, which didn't stop him from turning matters over in his head. One more feeling added itself to the mix as the passage slanted downwards, narrowing so there was barely room enough for him to walk through it; a growing need to help the twins, which he attributed to the similarities he sensed there were between them, which he was even now only beginning to understand, amidst the many mysteries surrounding the whole matter.

* * *

"What _are _we going to do?"

Connor shook his head. He had not wanted this to happen, not so soon after. But Chris was right, he needed to know, bugger what Gramps had wanted. Connor knew it was unavoidable; he would have had to tell him eventually.

_Eventually_. Not now, when Chris was barely recovering from his injuries, when he himself wasn't doing so hot either.

Chris was holding up better than he'd dared to hope, at least for now. The news was devastating, no matter how little Connor had dared to tell him; he'd explained, leaving out every single one of the more upsetting details, providing him with just the bare necessary information, so he could understand why they needed to keep things as secret as possible, for as long as possible.

Potentially heading Voldemort's hit list was bad enough, though, no matter how much he tried to gloss things over.

Chris didn't ask for details, but he was devastated by the news all the same. Details, Connor knew, he would have to provide soon enough—but for now, he knew as well as his brother did, that they had to focus on tomorrow, and surviving that trip before they could fancy to plan for anything beyond that.

"What do you reckon?" Chris asked again, reminding him he had yet to provide an answer to that.

"I reckon," Connor began slowly, "we'll wait until we're better—and then try the house in Wales. If it's taken too, then… Maybe another country. Or something."

"Won't we give the Order a chance?"

Connor bit his lip. It was very strange to see Chris this unsure, this forlorn and hopeless… It was rubbing off; Chris was usually the one to keep optimism alive and his head up, no matter what.

Having one's entire family being murdered in one night because you're the target, however, could certainly qualify as a worthy reason to lose hope, and feel small and afraid, vulnerable and alone.

"We'll give them a chance," Connor offered, in the same quiet tone he'd been using so far. He himself felt the same as Chris did, only he could not allow himself to wallow; being angry over it made it easier to bear, and he had been entrusted with Chris' care, he _had_ to focus. There was simply too much at stake for them both to go helpless at the moment.

Connor was aware of the fact that up until now, the Order had provided them with a safe haven of sorts. He might not trust them, but they had been helpful so far, and at the moment the thing he wished most for was to be able to trust them.

That was where they hit a snag.

Trust had become something out of the past, something they couldn't afford to squander—but he did desperately wish he could. So it was easy to be accommodating for Chris' wish, logic going out the window in the face of the possibility of not having to worry so much. Of being able to get a restful night.

Chris nodded, heaving a sigh.

"Are we telling them?" he asked the second most important question that had been burning in his head.

"I dunno," he mumbled hesitantly. "Telling them might be as good as telling the Death Eaters…"

"They might need to know," was the reply. "Some of them."

"We'll tell them when they need to know, then." He hoped that time would never come, busied himself with pouring some bright fuchsia concoction into a glass, offering it to the other boy. "In the meantime, try and get some sleep. It'll be a long day tomorrow."

"Potter's suspicious," Chris insisted. He'd felt it too, then.

"We'll deal with him when we have to."

"Tell him," Chris reached for the glass, plucking it from Connor's unmoving grip. "He's got a right to know what's up between the two of you—and between all three of us."

"Wonder how you came to that conclusion," Connor retorted. So much for letting the other rest. "Maybe you've forgotten just how much shite we're in, because of _him_?"

"I haven't," Chris mumbled, turning the glass round in his hands. "But it feels rather thick, not telling him. He's all we've got, as you said, and--"

"_And_ we'll deal with him when we need to," Connor's voice was tight, yet no less determined. "There's a reason why we kept out of sight, mate—I'm not binning it just because you feel that sod has a right to _anything_."

"I was just saying," Chris said, sipping the potion and cutting a grimace. "It would be fair." Connor motioned for him to down the potion, taking the glass back and helping him lie down.

"He doesn't _deserve_ fair."

"Maybe not," Chris conceded. "But you do."

* * *

The narrow corridor he was in wound its way left and right, and for a while Harry contented himself with walking, thinking, and trying to tie everything he had learned together, in an attempt to make sense of matters.

As it were, a babble of voices snapped him out of his brooding. Harry stopped short, debating for a moment whether or not to follow; he had heard enough, after all. Dumbledore's voice inviting people to sit helped him change his mind, though—This, he decided, he had every right to listen in to: The Order's doings and schemes had to do with him, after all, and there was no other way of hearing any of it. He sped up, not caring too much whether or not he was heard. The passage turned again, and he could see light shining into it in a straight beam, which, upon closer inspection, came from a finger-thick hole at hip level.

Moody was greeting everyone in his usual grouchy manner, which made him fear being caught, for a few moments—the grizzled Ex-Auror's magical eye was roving all around the room, he saw, as he pressed his eye against the peep-hole, which allowed him to look into the dining room… almost at the level of the ceiling, so he was looking down at the wizards and witches assembled below. For a moment, Moody's eye roved along the wall, right past Harry. His breath caught.

"All clear," Moody grunted, nodding at everyone.

He hadn't seen him.

Or else, he was allowing Harry to stay and listen. Whichever the case, Harry decided to stay put. Almost every Order member was present, taking their seats around the long dinner table, talking amongst themselves. Without exception, every face showed signs of stress and deep worry. Some looked pinched, and everyone looked tired. Harry couldn't bring himself to feel for them much.

The meeting began; it wasn't very enlightening at first, as the matters discussed were not alien to Harry. Healer Tonks told everyone how he and the McAlpin boys were doing, in her usual, snipish manner. Harry couldn't help but notice, once again, how she openly disliked Dumbledore. It made him smile; she wasn't fooled by him, then.

She might have been the only one, though. Everyone else hung onto Dumbledore's every word, and most agreed with him out of formula. The Weasley Twins, Remus, Tonks, and Bill proved themselves the exceptions to the rule,

What followed was a discussion about the McAlpins' situation—and it was less than hopeful. Other than the news of their health's steady improvement, everything else ranged from depressing to frustrating. Their grandfather's body had as yet not been retrieved, and carried on giving the Aurors and Hit Wizards a hard time; the Ministry had taken the will for examination before the twins were to have access to it; Their property in Blackpool had been found destroyed by the Death Eaters, and nobody had been any the wiser it was even ransacked in the first place; and they were due at Gringotts the day after tomorrow.

Mad-Eye was the most preoccupied of them all, which to Harry was an eye-opener in itself; the grim Ex-Auror rarely looked worried. He was used to seeing him snappishly bossing people about, always knowing what to do, in control of things, ahead of them, even. Now, there was none of it; he was earnestly worried, and not merely for the twins' safety; he expressed his concern over their mental health and well-being enough to make it clear he cared about them, very much.

His so very uncharacteristic fretting and fussing was interrupted, though, as Snape arrived. Sweeping into the room like he usually did the Potions dungeon, the sallow-faced wizard strode straight to an empty seat to Dumbledore's right, eyeing everyone with a disdainful sneer, which was returned with equally challenging looks from over half those present. It seemed that out of the lot, only a handful were comfortable having Snape around—and the bastard was well aware of it. He was milking it, never losing a chance to rub his position in on the rest.

He didn't even ask what he'd missed; it was all repeated for his benefit, which Harry saw as an unnecessary attention. His fixed glare was of course, lost on the recipient of it, and sadly, his wishing for a lightning bolt to strike Snape dead as he sat there, acting like he owned the Order, also went unheard. Harry couldn't remember when his hate for the Potions Master had grown thus great, but it was coursing through him like fire suddenly, his teeth gritted so hard they might chip, and he found himself thinking of spells suitable to cast on Snape before he knew it. He did none of the dreadful things he wanted, though, not stupid enough to blow his cover, and pressed his eye to the peep-hole again, as Dumbledore reached the end of his tale and the Order resumed their discussion of the McAlpin twins' fate.

The Order discussed what to do with them to the last detail; everyone who could be spared was to be present in Diagon Alley on the appointed date, arriving in pairs from early on—since nine in the morning, to guard the entire area hours before the twins were due there. Bill was to escort them while inside Gringotts, and Mad-Eye, Lupin, Tonks, and Mrs. Weasley would be accompanying them throughout the trip.

And do quite a bit of shopping, too.

The subject of what to do with them in the near future popped up as well, something Snape seemed keen on learning. Moody was against sending them to Hogwarts against their will, most everyone else believed they had not a say in the matter—Dumbledore headed this faction, unsurprisingly.

"They're not even _fifteen_, Alastor," he argued, in an attempt at reasoning with Moody. "They need to finish their education to have a chance at a future, and Hogwarts is where we can keep them most safe."

"If they don't _want_ to go, I'm not going to force them," Moody growled. "Not just because it's easier for us—they're loaded with gold, they don't need an education, and their training so far can show up most of your seventh years. _No_," he added, as everyone started voicing their opinions on the matter, and an argument promised to surface. "The only chance at a future they have right now is survival, don't fool yourselves. We need to figure out what to do _with_ them, taking their opinions into account. If forced to do anything that so much as rubs them wrong, they'll leave. They've been drilled to detect and avoid manipulation, and you'd much sooner catch them dead than locked up. I'm not going to spend ages hunting them down, or trying to regain their trust. I don't want to have to scrape them off a sidewalk either; Voldemort wants them, I can't tell you what the reason for this is, only they can. If they even know it, which I have reasons to doubt. They do know, however, that they're targeted, at least as much as Potter, unless I'm mistaken?"

All eyes turned to Snape, and up from his lofty eavesdropping position, Harry shifted, the better to see. Snape's face sported the usual inscrutable expression, but his eyes betrayed him. Or maybe it was the angle he was seeing things in. Either way, Snape's eyes showed he was thinking fast, calculating, assessing.

"He hasn't mentioned them once," he said idly.

Lying bastard.

"But I might have some more information later; I have been drawn into the close circle of counsellors, which might yield the information you want."

_What's that?_ Harry's glasses rasped against the peephole, he was pressing his face so hard against it, not wanting to miss a thing.

The information Snape had to offer was pitifully meagre; some hogwash about the top Death Eaters or other, and just one point of interest. The mention of the name Rasmus Thanatovich made Harry snap to attention.

"So the old bastard's still alive," Moody growled darkly. "Figures."

"He has been drafted by the Dark Lord, and yet, won't take the Mark. Everyone else considers him an external advisor of sorts… And a threat." That Snape himself was in such a position wasn't lost on Harry. "He is presently working on several secret projects, to which I have as yet not had access. I shall let you know more as I gather new information."

All in all, the Order meeting had offered much fodder for thought, but little by way of a solid course of action. By the time Harry went back to his room, spotting and picking up old postcards, motorbike magazines, newspaper cutouts, torn parts of what turned out to be a motorbike repair manual, Harry had learned that the Dementors had doubled their numbers in the past four months, which some attributed to the ready supply of food they had access to; that Charlie would arrive on the 30th and was to stay behind with Harry while everyone was out in Diagon Alley – as if he needed babysitting, honestly – and that the Hit Wizards had managed to retrieve Rob McFusty's and his wife's bodies, which would be delivered to the family tomorrow. The funeral was to take place at the McFusty Dragon Reserve, on the first of August.

Of Harry there had been no mention, save for a comment of McGonagall's about talking to him. Dumbledore did not seem keen on it, but agreed to do it as soon as he had a chance to. Harry hoped the said chance would be a long time in coming.

The meeting had ended on a daunting note; the Aurors were trying to pinpoint a pattern to the disappearances that had happened of late. Always it had been muggleborns, coming from families that had little to nothing to do with the war; ordinary people, living ordinary lives, save for the constant looming threat of an attack by Death Eaters. Not one had been connected to the Ministry, the Order, or even held a position that would be in any way influential for either side. None had been known to publicly or privately support either of the factions, either. Some, as Tonks had said, had been students, or children due to start Hogwarts this year, or the next.

"It makes no sense," she had finished.

Hours later, lying in bed after rolling things over for the umpteenth time in his head, Harry decided very little did anymore.

* * *

The following day crawled by as slow and dull as the preceding ones had; Harry had managed only a couple of hours of sleep, constantly plagued by nightmares and old memories, some of which did not even belong to him. He had little energy come morning, and no interest in seeing anyone. He spent the entire morning avoiding everyone, officially locked in his room but exploring the passage he'd discovered instead.

Which led… Outside.

He'd been peering out of a brick wall next to a small side row before he knew it, rain falling on his face as he squinted around. He retreated hastily, fearing he'd triggered some alarm; but as it were, nobody was any the wiser. Had Sirius used this passage often? Who else knew of it?

He now did, at least, and decided to count it amongst the very few pros of the house.

Emerging from Sirius' room for a short lunch after washing up, Harry soon ended up seeking refuge in the library, where he holed himself up until tea-time: Mrs. Weasley might not be the friendliest of witches of late, but she still made a point of filling him and the twins to the brim at every chance.

The McAlpin twins had been equally reluctant to interact with anyone, but as Harry reached the kitchen, he caught them talking to Remus and Tonks, who had come in from some assignment or other, looking every bit as jaded as the rest of the household.

Harry left them to it, mumbling his short responses to the usual inquiries as to his well-being and things, choosing to focus on picking at his pie without any enthusiasm, but sneaking covert glances at Chris and Connor either way; Connor in particular looked under the weather, dark rings under his eyes a silent testimony of less-than-restful sleep. Chris did manage a half-hearted joke or two to Tonks' comments on her night's work, but he too, looked nothing like what Andromeda Tonks' report had sounded the previous evening. They were healing fast, she said. Doing better than she'd expected.

He wasn't an expert in magical healing, but it still didn't look that way to him.

And Harry was increasingly, earnestly worried. After trying to make sense of everything he'd learned the previous night, and unable to shake off the inexplicable craving for closeness with the twins, his prior curiosity had turned into something more of a raving need, to talk to them, to figure out what was going on with them… To _help_ them.

Which in turn he was trying to shake off; how could _he_, cock-up extraordinaire, so much as entertain the thought of helping _anyone_ in the present circumstances? He couldn't even help his own sorry arse, never mind a pair of kids who were, if possible, even worse off than he was and who, by every indication so far, wanted nothing to do with him at all?

The searing in his scar came on suddenly, and while it was unsurprising that it would happen sooner or later, he hadn't expected it at all. Across the table from him, Connor clutched the table convulsively, staring straight into his eyes.

Harry's fork fell from his hand with a clatter, and the rest of him followed it to the floor with a gasp that soon became a strangled cry.

Chairs scraped on wood, urgent calls were uttered, but Harry couldn't hear them, the kitchen dissolving, water-like, into a darker, familiar room.

"_Ah, Rasmus. I was wondering when you'd be back." Harry hissed, his goblet held idly in one white, long-fingered hand__, hiding from view his anticipation and impatience over this visit. "What is that you bring me?" He tilted his head the better to see._

"_One more for your collection, Lord Voldemort," came the easy reply, though the child Rasmus had brought in was still struggling. "I came across it along the way here."_

_Harry nodded, pleased matters were going so well._

"_How many more, my old friend?"_

"_Seven more," Rasmus said, handing the bound figure to a Death Eater, who dragged it off. "I trust by the due date, we'll be covered—as long as Bellatrix stops toying with them. Particularly the younger ones; the way she's going on about it, they won't last, and children are hard to come by on a tight schedule."_

"_I'll tell her to lay off," Harry promised. "But that's not the reason why you're here."_

_Rasmus graced him with a smirk, assenting with his head. He walked to an armchair next to Harry's, lowering himself on it._

"_The Longbottoms," he said. "They're at St. Mungo's now, at their monthly visit. I am ready to strike as soon as they return—in half an hour." A frisson of eagerness took hold of Harry—were _they_ there?_

"_And you believe the targets have contacted them?" he asked. Rasmus shrugged dismissively. _

"_Whether they have or not, remains to be seen. If they are on their own, sooner or later they'll contact help—And if said help is unavailable to them, sooner than later they'll be found. Severus has promised me to let me know at once, should they contact the Order of the Phoenix. So far, he has had nothing to provide."_

"_He did not give you any trouble, I trust?"_

_A thin smile, which betrayed a promise of what would happen, should anyone dare give him any trouble._

"_None, my Lord."_

"_Very well. What intend you to do at the Longbottoms' house?"_

"_Burn it to the ground," was the rather idle reply. "I am aware it might be a tad trite and hackneyed a strategy," he admitted, snapping his fingers for some wine. "But its effects on the popular psyche have yet to be topped. The old woman won't submit to any manner of… negotiation, as we well know. She would rather die than acknowledge your power. Thus she shall get her wish."_

_Harry chuckled, nodding his agreement. The Longbottom woman had been an annoyance to him for years. Even the maddening of her son and daughter-in-law had not been enough to quench her. She might not constitute a threat, perhaps, but she certainly was an enemy to his regime. And entirely too old to be allowed to live; the woman was stealing oxygen, for Salazar's sake._

"_I am also wondering what the heir has to offer. Not much, if what I have gathered of the boy is any indication."_

"_A true pity. Do you think he'll submit?"_

"_I shall find out shortly."_

"_If he does, leave him alive," Harry advised. "I could use one more of the Nine at my side, and the Longbottom vault's contents as well. They are of pure blood, after all. Can't kill them off like dogs. That would look bad on our presentation letters."_

"_That may be, but their deaths might prove much stronger a message to those daring to rebel against your power. Either way, they shall prove useful." Ah, Rasmus, finding win-win solutions to everything._

"_When are you striking?"_

"_Within the hour; from what I have learned, they commonly return from St. Mungo's for dinner," Rasmus informed, sipping his wine. "I shall surprise them while they eat. I took down the wards this morning after they left, all I lack are some of your minions to do the dirty work."_

_Nothing easier to provide._

"_You there, come here," Harry ordered one of his Death Eaters, beckoning him with a flick of his wrist. "Bring me Bellatrix. She has played around in the Pit long enough. And call my loyal Death Eaters to me. They have work to do."_

A hand was slapping him repeatedly, while another pair of shaking hands shook him awake.

"Harry! Harry, wake up!"

"Murgh," he managed, cracking an eye open to squint at Remus, who turned out to be the one who was shaking him, and the blurry, swimming faces surrounding him. In the background, Mrs. Weasley was calling Healer Tonks, and Bill was asking Tonks what was wrong. Remus asked for a rag for Harry's forehead, which had once more split open.

Head pounding fit to burst, Harry momentarily wished he could just pass out and save himself from dealing with the Order—But he couldn't do that.

His eyes snapped open, sudden urgency gripping him.

The Longbottoms!

"They're going—going after Neville!" He struggled to sit up, but Remus held him fast.

"Harry, lie still--"

"No—you don't understand," Harry said, fighting off Remus and struggling to sit up. Everything was still out of focus, and he was shaking, his glasses hanging crookedly on his face. He righted them, swiping at his forehead. "He's—he's going to go after the Longbottoms!"

"What?"

"Are you sure?"

"The Longbottoms?"

"Yes," Harry said forcefully, trying to remember what all he'd seen. "They… they were talking, Voldemort, and the Russian nutter—He brought him something. A kid… F-f-for a collection…" Harry swallowed. What had _that_ been all about?

"What are you talking about?" Tonks asked hurriedly. "What collection?"

"I don't… I don't know," Harry muttered, shaking his head to the glass of water he was being offered. "They said something about a pit, and Bellatrix was toying with them—" Harry shook his head to clear it. The impending attack on Neville and his grandmother was even more pressing. "They were talking about getting the Longbottoms, in their house," he repeated.

"When?"

"Are you sure?"

"How?"

"Why?"

Weren't they _articulate_ when they wanted to?

"After they get back from… From St. Mungo's!" Harry'd almost forgotten. "During dinner, that's when! And I don't know why, you'll have to ask them," he finished, irritation starting to take over. He took the rag from Remus' hand, turning his head away as he tried to clean away the blood.

"Stop that, I'm alright," he muttered. "You have to go help them."

There was no response to that. No response, at least, that he was willing to hear.

"Harry—"

"Are you sure you saw what you saw, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked. Nobody else had moved, all eyes fixed on him. Harry pressed the rag against his forehead, though trying to claw it off was much more tempting.

"Yeah," he answered, but his temper was already bubbling up. "I am sure I saw what I saw!" he erupted. "Or are you going to wait for the Death Eaters to bloody kill them too to prove if I'm right or not?"

"He's been known to plant visions in your head before," a voice said from the door. Harry craned his throbbing head around… To glare at Kingsley, who'd just arrived, followed by Moody, who stayed by the door. "We can't just risk everyone on a wh--"

"Right, I'd forgotten you lot prefer handling body bags than Death Eaters," Harry muttered furiously. "I might have been wrong _before_, and _believe me_—I hate it as much as you do, but wouldn't send you off on a bloody whim!" he snapped, but even in his state and anger, the matter of the Longbottoms' fate was much more pressing. "_You don't have time_—he's going after Neville and his gran _now_!"

"I'm afraid we need more proof than that," Kingsley answered, in that calming deep voice Harry was growing to loathe.

"He's not lying." Connor hadn't rushed to Harry's side like everyone else. Neither had Chris, who even now was giving his brother a rather panicked look. Upon forcing his sight upwards towards him, Harry saw why; Connor was pale as a sheet, shaking almost as much as he himself was. He searched his face for any indication as to why that was, but Connor wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on Lupin's, then wandered to look at Moody.

"I'll go check," Moody snarled.

"Wait—"

"Moody, no—"

"Are you certain, Harry?"

"Bloody hell, what is wrong with you people?" Harry shouted, and somehow, while this made his head threaten to split open again, it also made the world stop spinning. He found himself on his feet, holding onto the table for support. "Just ruddy go to St. Mungo's before they leave!"

It was evident nobody had even thought of this; once more, everyone was looking at him, Moody included.

"If they're there," Harry growled, glaring at the rest and tossing the rag aside, "then I'm probably right, and it's a trap for them. If they're not—then you're right and I cocked up again."

* * *

"_You_." The witch's voice lacked all strength, but the loathing it contained was almost tangible, mixed with what he took to be disbelief.

Honestly, after a few days you'd have thought she'd have gotten used to it.

"Me," Connor confirmed conversationally, staring right back at the portrait of the deranged witch, his hands buried in his pockets to keep them from shaking. After what had just happened in the kitchen, his ears were still ringing from Potter's screams, and he himself was shaken. Shaking. Which was after all, the reason for him to stand here, before Mrs. Black's old portrait.

Try as he might not to allow himself to turn it into a bawl fest like Potter seemed to have become accustomed to doing, he could not help reacting to it. The visions, the jolts of magic coursing through him, increasingly strong as the time spent in Potter's vicinity lengthened, the feelings, both physical and emotional, that lingered after it was over, were enough to make him want to do quite a bit more than shake. Splatter the floor before him with his last meal or two, for example.

He wouldn't ever let himself stoop that low, though.

Unlike _Potter_.

So maybe his scar did make things worse, and Connor was aware there _was_ pain involved; he'd felt it too, hadn't he? Every time, for years. In his eyes, that was still no reason to deafen everyone within a five-mile radius with his screaming, though he reckoned the most annoying part of the whole affair were the seizures. Potter just let himself go, he didn't even _try_ to keep himself in check.

Pathetic.

He turned his attention to the portrait once more, eyes roving over every brush stroke, examining it in a way nobody had ever dared to in over twenty-five years.

"Insolent little _puke_." Still the voice had not raised over a whisper, still it was filled with hatred. His theory was confirmed; the charm protecting them did not work on portraits. How many were there in this house that could perhaps, make the connection? How many of them could speak, and learn, and consequently, blab?

This one couldn't learn, perhaps—it was way too batty to do so—but it had a long memory, and that, could be even worse for them.

"That's a nice variation on the usual, Walburga," he retorted in an exaggeratedly polite tone that had the desired result. Lividness did not exactly improve the looks of the hag, he decided, watching the raging, contorted features of the already distorted face. "Are you using it more often?"

"Don't— _Don't_ address me in such casual a manner!" Imperative, threatening even-- but as yet nobody could possibly have heard what was said if they stood over six feet from the portrait. "Treat me with the respect I deserve, wizardling!"

_Oh, but I am._

"Isn't that dear? Wizardling. That's what they called kids back in the day?"

"What do you _want_?" He could almost see the hate dripping from every word. Connor smirked, though his amusement was only shown to anger her all the more.

"Nothing in particular," he replied easily, returning the glare with the most insolent smirk he could muster. "To have a good look at you, isn't that what you were stuck to this wall for? Though I wonder why they bothered, you're hideous as homemade sin. Well," he amended reasonably, "seeing as you _are_ homemade sin… I suppose it's understandable."

Sputtering didn't suit her any more than drooling, glaring, or hissing had done, really. He resumed his close observation, but he was not looking at the painting. He was looking for ways to burn, vanish, or otherwise get rid of it, scanning every inlay of gold on the canvas, every inch of paint. In passing, he became intimately acquainted with its occupant.

"How _dare_ you look me in the eye?"

"How dare you look _me_ in the eye?" he retorted, mimicking her mockingly. It had the desired result once more, she was sputtering again.

"_You--_ You are—"

"Morbidly fascinated by your mug," he supplied helpfully, successfully interrupting the portrait for the first time in years. "It's not that I find you attractive, believe me. Tell me, did they charm you to change your looks as hers did or did she always look this way? Because honestly…" He cut a grimace, chuckling to himself as the screaming began.

"BLOOD-TRAITOR! SUCH A DISGRACE TO THE NOBLE BLOOD OF MY FATHERS! SHAME! SHAME AND PUNISHMENT FOR YOU FOR DEFILING THIS ANCIENT HOUSE!"

He did not flinch back.

"I bet you have a lovely singing voice, too."

"OUT! OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

"It's not yours anymore," he informed in a low voice, as the painting stopped for a breath. "You should keep that in mind, old hag." He turned away, making for the stairs, where he spotted something glittering on the floor, next to the first step.

"You—You insolent bastard!"

"Nope, not a bastard," Connor replied, picking the object up; it was a ring, sporting two large diamonds and a central emerald, inside which was engraved the Black family crest. He tried it on, smirking as he showed it to the witch, who had fallen silent, staring at him in gaping disbelief and horrified dismay.

The long, drawn-out, impossibly _loud_ shriek that followed rattled the windows up to the fourth floor.

Connor smirked, taking the ring off and letting it fall into his pocket.

"Glad to see we understand each other."

* * *

"What if you're wrong?"

"What if I'm _not_, ever stopped to think of that?" Harry muttered furiously, now seated unsteadily on a chair, and being reluctantly tended to by Healer Tonks, whose usual snappish demeanour was absent, which was probably the fates' way of reminding Harry they would never once cooperate with him; he'd have loved some verbal sparring with her.

"You need to find a way to block out those visions," Mrs. Weasley said, interrupting her fussing over him long enough to give him a strange look. For a moment, Harry was reminded of his aunt Petunia.

"I would if I could, gladly."

The kitchen was filled with Order members now; Moody had insisted on calling every single available witch and wizard in, just in case. Harry had the distinct feeling he wasn't doing it out of a trust in him, however. It had been Connor who'd backed him, surprising a few years out of him. Of everyone who'd witnessed his spaz, Connor had been the last Harry would have turned for help to.

Not that he could explore this new turn of events any further; No sooner had Healer Tonks arrived in the middle of a heated discussion and Moody and Remus left for St. Mungo's, Harry had seen Connor stagger out of the kitchen without a word.

Chris was still there, sitting out of the way and sipping on a steaming mug of chocolate, but he too, remained silent, alternately watching the goings-on in the middle of the kitchen and shooting uneasy glances at the door, as if waiting for Connor to return. Harry had the distinct sensation he wouldn't.

Something silvery flew in through the chimney, startling Harry and making everyone stop their bickering at once; a fat sheep Patronus stood right before them. When it spoke, though, it did so with Remus' voice.

"The Longbottoms have just left St. Mungo's," it informed, addressing Kingsley. "One of the Healers said they'd invited her for dinner, in half an hour—Harry was right, it's a trap."

Harry thought he'd be vindicated by this statement. That his first words upon feeling Kingsley's eyes on him would be, "I told you so."

Instead, he could merely swallow, his stomach twisting into knots.

"Hurry."

* * *

"I trust the instructions are simple enough for all of you to follow," Rasmus said, addressing the black-robed group assembled around him. "I'll deal with the old woman and the boy—in the meantime, you are to make sure nobody else is left alive, and not a stone of this house is left standing."

"Yeah, yeah, can we get on with it already?"

"I do not remember stating it was your turn to speak, Yaxley," Rasmus said clearly. "We're not 'getting on with it' until they've arrived and started on their dinner."

"Why can't we just welcome them in their own front room?" asked Bellatrix, caressing her wand.

Rasmus did not bother to hide his displeasure. Neither did he bother to reply to her.

"It would be more of a surprise…"

"We'd get some time to look around."

"I want first dibs on the jewellery—"

"And your Master will surely not be pleased," Rasmus drawled, leaning on his carved ivory cane. Instantly, the silence was restored. "We are not here for petty theft; the priorities are quite clear, and we shall strike _while they are eating_, because that is when they shall be most vulnerable."

Nobody dared contradict him this time; all Death Eaters present were a part of the Innermost Circle, and simply belonging to that select group had given them power and authority over most Death Eaters and supporters of the Dark Side – and non-supporters as well – enough to dare be cocky in front of almost anyone.

_Almost_.

Rasmus, out of them all, was the most dangerous, and the one none of them, Bellatrix included, dared to cross, no matter how much they hated him.

Lucius limited himself to a sneer, Yaxley muttered something under his breath, Bellatrix glared at him… But in the end, all obeyed. Rasmus turned his attention on the large house once more, apparently protected by layers upon layers of wards placed there by Albus Dumbledore himself.

It had taken him less than five hours to duplicate them with his own, and the last addition to his spells was now the one he was looking for.

A momentary flash was seen, like a camera going off on one of the top floors. Rasmus smiled.

"They're home."

* * *

Harry had resorted to wandering the house without any set destination, if only to give his restless energy some outlet, however small. He was worried for Neville and his grandmother, the Aurors who'd been dispatched to the Longbottoms' house, and the Order members—all of whom could die on his information, thus making him feel all the worse—and Mrs. Weasley's fretting in the kitchen, the furtive looks he was receiving, the badly-hidden doubt she had of his visions being true—which only spurred his own self-doubts to greater heights—and the worry for her husband and sons, all of whom had gone to help the Longbottoms, were too much to endure.

The portrait of Mrs. Black had erupted in a formidable fit of screams earlier as well, which provided Harry with the perfect excuse to leave the kitchen… And he had no intention of returning, which perhaps made the fact it was near impossible to silence the portrait a strike of chance.

Of the McAlpin twins there was no sign anywhere, which in turn made him wonder if he should seek them out, talk to them. Of all the mysteries he'd been faced with, they were the most prominent of all, the one that intrigued him most, one he could not quite comprehend.

Not to mention, speculating about them and maybe even confronting them would keep him from biting his fingernails to the quick while fretting over Neville and the Order, and whether or not his vision had been true… or he had merely led them into a deadly trap.

He reached Sirius' old bedroom without finding the other boys, backtracking his steps almost at once. That place would perhaps be the worst setting he could pick, and he might be going slowly insane, but that didn't mean he was a masochist. Not that much of one, at any rate.

It was when he shuffled past the Drawing Room that he noticed the door was open—and Connor was inside. Harry poked his head in, watched the younger boy looking at the Black Family Tree, absorbed in his thoughts. Watched him raise his good hand, to trail a finger along the double gold thread from Sirius' parents to Regulus' name and the small burn mark next to it.

"It was Sirius' spot, right there," Harry said quietly, stepping into the room. Connor stiffened; he had been so absorbed in the tapestry he'd not realised Harry had been watching. A first. "Sirius Black's. This was his house."

"I don't remember asking you for a ruddy guided tour," Connor's tone was hoarse. He had not yet turned to face him, eyes fixed on the small burn mark next to the name Regulus A. Black. "I know _whose_ house this was."

"I--"

"I know whose it _is_, too."

"I was just--"

"Trying to make conversation? Get entertainment now your horde of clowns is out? Some idle chit-chat to take your mind off things, maybe?" The Scottish lilt was marked, with enough loathing and anger coating the words to make anyone uncomfortable, and being on the brunt end of it, _feeling_ the emotions emanating from the other boy as though they were an extension of himself, both alien and familiar, Harry took a step back, but fought to keep himself in check.

"No, I…" He _had_ been trying to find things out, though. Make conversation, maybe figure something out.

_So much for that, then. _

"Never mind." He shook his head, turning to leave. Connor's eyes had not left the tapestry, nor did he show any signs of listening.

"Such an idiot." It was delivered softly, clearly not directed at him, but it nevertheless trailed to Harry's ears. He froze mid-step.

_What?_

"What did you say?" Harry demanded from between gritted teeth.

"I thought you were leaving? Don't let me stop you. Door's right there. Put the wood in the hole once you're out."

"I'd rather you told me to my face."

"Who says I was talking _about_ or _to_ you?" Connor snorted, tapping the charred spot where Sirius' name had once been with his forefinger for an explanation. It was somehow sufficient, more jarring than he'd have believed possible. How _dared_ he talk about Sirius? How dared he pass judgement on someone he had never even met? And yet there he was, mocking, aloof, maddeningly collected, insulting Sirius like someone talking about the weather.

If one could hate the weather so much.

"Typical. Everything just revolves around _you_, doesn't it? Automatically. Sorry to disappoint, Boy-Who-Lived. When I talk to you, I'll _look at you_. Which incidentally, shall happen as little as humanly possible."

That much had become _very_ clear.

"Take that back." Three strides, and Harry was in front of Connor, glaring at him. The cool look he was getting did nothing to make him simmer down.

"Or else wha?" Connor asked in an exaggerated affectation of cluelessness, wiggling his head in a manner that was intended to incense him further.

And he succeeded.

"I said: _Take that back_. You've no right to say _anything_ about Sirius!"

"I _don't_? Since when did you get made the guardian of the dead? Is it because everyone you know eventually gets copped? Rather careless on your part, I might add—but their own _blasted fault_, isn't it? Like that fool over there."

Something inside him snapped. Harry saw red.

"He --was not --_A FOOL_!" he roared furiously, swinging out at Connor's face for an almighty punch—

And hit only air.

Connor sidestepped him, using Harry's momentum to give him a shove that sent him sprawling, but Harry caught himself, whirled around, kicked out--

The next moment everything swam before his vision, and he landed, flat on his back, against the tapestry of the Black Family Tree. Connor had barely moved, but somehow he was holding Harry's outstretched leg now, wrenching it upwards and pinning him in place. And he was laughing. A nasty, bitter, mocking sort of laugh.

One Harry had heard before.

"Oh, ho ho. And just how utterly _stupid_ do you feel now?" Connor asked, tilting his head to the side in a mockery of an inquiry that was more of the former than the latter.

"He's not—He _wasn't an idiot_!" Harry snapped again, trying to break free, but he could barely keep his balance.

"Don't like hearing that, do you?" Connor asked, but his temper too, was rising. His tone betrayed him, menacing, calculating. "He was an _idiot_, a traitor, pure utter _scum_."

"Shut _up_." Harry's tone was no less a threat in itself.

"Of the worst sort," Connor went on, ignoring him, eyes flashing dangerously into his own, cold as ice. "Abandoned his family, his own _blood_. Without a thought. And for what?" Connor gave him a once over, filled with distaste, which also dripped from every word. "Your _father_. And then?" A snort. "_You_." He spat it out, let go of Harry's leg, sending him sprawling onto the floor with a thud.

"Wasted," Connor snarled, "So much wasted on you. Do you ever wonder if you deserve it? So many people dying for you, as if you were the last ruddy coke in the Gobi desert. And what do you do in return? Get your arse into traps left and right. You're more of an idiot than any of them are. Were." Harry raffled himself up, panting.

"I didn't—"

"You didn't _what_, Potter?" Connor snapped, stepping forward. "Give a right shit? No, I don't suppose you would have, what with idiots like Black lining up to play rug for you. Got what he deserved for it, too."

"Say that again, and--"

"And what?" Connor prompted, his face barely an inch from his own. He could feel his breath, warm and vaguely smelling of bile, on his cheek. "_What_? Do carry on, by all means. I won't be welcome in _your_ house any longer, perhaps?" It was a mockery, bitter, sharp. A challenge, out at last, after so long. It was a conscious needling as well, Harry realised. Connor might not look or sound that way, but he _was_ straining to keep his self-control.

"I didn't say that," Harry snarled. "You can stay however long you need to--"

"And I should be _grateful_ now, shouldn't I?" Connor shot back. "You pompous little bastard, you can take all your selfless 'help' and shove it up your arse."

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I don't like you, Potter. That's my problem. You can't take a ruddy hint—that's _your_ problem."

"What have I ever done to _you_?"

"You _lived_."

_WHA…?_

"I—_what_?" Harry was nonplussed.

"Yes! It's fantastic, isn't it?" Connor said, throwing his arms up, as if Harry were a dim toddler who'd just successfully added one and one. His grin, his would-be celebratory attitude were gone in the next moment, replaced by cold bitterness again. Harry didn't stir, however, unable to utter a word. Of all the reasons he had pondered over the past week for this behaviour, this was the last he'd ever expected to hear.

He didn't move as Connor came closer once more, didn't retaliate as he was poked sharply in the chest, received a hiss for an explanation.

"You _lived_, you sorry little _shite_."

He'd expected something like that from a Death Eater. Not this kid.

"You're on their side then?" Harry's lips had gone very, very dry.

"Oh yeah, because the world is split in two all of a sudden, isn't it? Death Eaters on the one hand, this lot of brainless baboons on the other—Get a bloody grip. There's more to the world than _that_, Potter. Possibly more than your little mind can wrap itself around, but that doesn't make it any less true." Every time he said his name, it was as if he were spitting him in the face. How could he put so much loathing in one word? He reminded Harry of his dad, spitting Snape's name out like a curse. Sirius had too, and he'd topped his dad's exploits. Harry had once wondered how they managed to roll so much bitter emotion behind one _name_, of all things. He now knew.

"You're going to catalogue me along with the Death Eaters now, then? Go right ahead, it doesn't change anything."

Harry didn't have an answer to that. He stared at the other boy, dumbstruck and taken aback by the sudden outburst. Still, isn't that exactly what he wanted? To know what was up with Connor? What was bothering him?

"Not everyone on the light side thinks you're the hottest thing since convection ovens," Connor said in a swagger. "What, did you think _everyone_ celebrated the fact you'd survived that curse? For some of us, it fucked up everything beyond recognition. He was one of those sods, but at least he got the chance to choose, unlike others. Sort of gives you an idea how dim he was." A finger jabbed at the charred spot where Sirius' name had been. "Only he was too stupid, or too _loyal_, or too bloody besotted to tell you any of that."

_Careful what you wish for_, his mind provided, using a mocking, bitter tone much similar to the one belonging to the boy before him. It then added, _He sounds like Snape a whole lot_.

Harry might have _wanted_ to know, but he had not expected _this_ to be the answer.

"What's going on?"

Harry turned around, to spot Chris at the door to the Drawing Room, leaning against the doorframe. Would he start flinging out insults at Sirius too?

"Just a little difference of opinions, that's all." Connor's voice was conversational again, yet his eyes were still boring into Harry's with the same intensity. "Potter here thinks Black was the next best thing since firewhiskey."

"Ah." Chris understood. But just _what_ he understood, was lost on Harry. "You know, I think you should tell him." Delivered calm as anything, but Harry could feel the tension starting to build between them both. Connor's eyes snapped from Harry's to his brother's, fixing him with as sharp a look as he had Harry not a breath earlier.

"Whatever for?"

"He's got a right to know, doesn't he?"

"_Does_ he?"

"He already knows. How long do you think it'll take him to at least make the connection?"

Connor snorted.

"A few centuries, and that _if_ he's quick about it."

"He's already aware of it. So I reckon he ought to know."

_What the hell?_

"And that would help us… _how_?"

"Maybe it won't. But you're not making any sense to him. Look at him, he's completely lost. And he's…"

"As much of an idiot as his forebears were?" Connor suggested, raising his eyebrows at his brother after a perfunctory glance at Harry.

It was the last straw.

The next moment Connor was flat against the wall, pinned there by Harry's grip on the front of his threadbare bathrobe. He winced.

"Told you," Chris supplied, but did not move from his spot by the door. It was all lost in Harry's yelling anyway.

"WHO THE _FUCK_ DO YOU THINK YOU ARE THAT YOU CAN SPEAK ABOUT MY FAMILY LIKE THAT?" he shouted, not caring anymore to get answers. All he wanted was for Connor to stop dishing out insults left and right.

"Piss off." It wasn't directed at him, but at Chris.

"Answer me!" Harry demanded, slamming him against the wall. If that didn't get his attention…

"_Tell_ him, Connor." Chris sounded warning.

"Fuck _you_." Connor shot at his brother, completely ignoring Harry and not even making to push him away.

"If _you_ don't tell him, by Merlin, I will."

"Be my guest and try." Connor chuckled darkly.

"I will. I--" A choking sound made Harry turn to see Chris trying to speak.

"You _can't_, you moron. Not unless _I_ die."

"Do it, then."

"What, die? Or tell him?" Connor's eyes turned to fix themselves on Harry again though, and this time, they were surveying him once more, the calculating, assessing look back full force.

"You know," he mused, "Have it your way. I'll do it. He deserves it, after all."

"What the bloody hell are you on about?" Harry asked blankly, his grip sliding from Connor's front without him realising it.

"Your dreams," Connor said, licking his chapped lips. "The visions. They hurt your scar, don't they, like just now, that bloody Russian nutter was telling Voldemort about the Longbottoms--"

"How…?" Harry swallowed. "How do you know that?"

"He gets you most at night, too," Connor went on, advancing in on Harry now, as he recoiled out of instinct. "You spend half the night screaming into your pillow, the other half out cold or having nightmares. Bit pathetic, if you ask me, but to each his own."

"How do you _know_?" Harry repeated. He'd put up silencing charms, he always did—

"Silencing charms don't work with me." Was he reading his mind now?

"_How_?" Harry breathed, taking another unwitting step back.

"I've _always _known," Connor said, looking down at him. "And now…. By public demand-- now you will know too."

"_What_?"

"Listen closely you little mong, because I'm just saying this the once," Connor warned, his voice a mere whisper as he leaned even closer to Harry. "My name." He snorted. "My _real_ name, that is. Is Sirius Black. _That's_ how I know."

"Wh--" Harry's heart skipped a few beats, a rush of energy, of magic went through him, tying hereto isolated facts, memories, thoughts together. He stood there, gaping at the boy, this spitting image of Sirius he could suddenly recognise, almost identical to the Sirius in the Pensieve, who scoffed, shook his head, then turned away.

"I hope you're happy." He heard Connor—_**Sirius**_—mutter to Chris, on his way out.

"It can't be," Harry whispered, aghast. "It's impossible."

"Is it?" Connor asked idly, stopping by the doorframe and reaching into his pocket, pulling out a small, silvery something and tossing it up in the air a few times. "Alright, then. Impossible it is." He lobbed the thing at Harry, and it landed on the carpet, rolling towards him. Harry followed the small object's progress, until it came to a halt, right between his feet. It was…

Sirius' signet ring.

"You can fill him in on the rest now," he heard Connor... No, **_Sirius_**, say. "And be sure to clean the sick off the floor."

Then the images began to flash before his eyes, coupling with a sudden clenching of his stomach. The room started to spin, the air suddenly thick with voices, laughter, cries... His mother's. His father's. Sirius'. Many others besides, all of them distinct, as though the speakers were right next to him.

"What sick? I don't see any."

Harry's stomach gave a lurch, and he was on his knees the next moment, retching all over the floor.

"Now you do."

* * *

TBC.


	20. Causality Part Two: Casting The Dice

**Disclaimer: Kindly refer to disclaimers 1-19. This one would only be a variation on the same.**

**Dedicated: To Japonica, for being a wicked beta! **

**Also dedicated: To everyone still reading.**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

**Causality Part Two: Casting The Dice**

_W__hen the matter is closely examined, it is seen that there is no chance whatsoever about the fall of the dice._ _Back of the fall of the die are causes, or chains of causes, running back further than the mind can follow._

**-The Kybalion**

* * *

Flashes of images came into a momentary sharp focus, snatches of conversations long past fading in and out, succeeding each other without any order. Feelings, sounds, even _smells_ were coursing through him like fire; Harry wheezed for air, forehead pressed against the dusty, moth-eaten old carpet, missing the pool of sick next to him by a mere inch.

"_James, come look! He's standing up on his own!" _Beaming, grinning faces looking at him. Faces he could recognise only because he'd seen them many times before on photographs.

"_Sirius is missing this—Where's the camera?"_

"_Forget the camera, just look at him—"_

"_You've got to be _joking_, the bastard will want proof Harry's starting to walk—He owes me seventy-two Galleons and three Knuts, and if his first word is Dad, he'll owe me a smashing--"_

His parents faded away, replaced by a Sirius younger than he could remember. He too, was smiling, wearing a Father Christmas hat and floating baubles for him to try and grab, turning them into shiny broomsticks, or Quaffles, or Snitches. It was followed by another scene, which he was watching from behind blue-coloured bars.

"_It's madness, Padfoot. He'll only kill you, and then what?" _The anger, the hopelessness, washed over him as well as the words.

"_I'll tell you what's madness—That prophecy rot is madness! Going after a bloody __**baby**__ is madness! We need to grab whatever chance we can get to keep him alive! He'll kill us all anyway, you know that as well as I do."_

This too, faded into another, different scene. Chris was there, not older than nine, clutching him by the arms and shaking him in a panic, while he saw Voldemort's face from the back of Quirrel's head, as if through a haze--

"_Connor, what's wrong? Can you hear me? Gramps! Gramps! Come here quick!"_

A hospital bed, around which blurry figures were talking in hushed voices—

Dementors closing in, heading for a fallen girl. They were going to give Holly the Kiss. He had to do something, anything--

"_Sirius! Get my son off that motorbike this instant!"_

"_He's got to learn young, Lily—What if he needs it for something?"_

"_He can barely sit upright, what would he need it for?"_

"_Why, to attract the girls, of course."_

Chris again, older. Another day. The same panic.

"_He's gone all stiff again. His eyes are open, but he can't see me."_

An elderly wizard coming into view.

"_Son, can you hear me?"_

Harry was fairly gasping for breath now, eyes unfocused and lightheaded. The jumbled images of memories flooding his head were threatening to make his brain explode; the whirlwind of colours and voices spinning around him in a kaleidoscope-like array took him to his past, to Connor's past, bringing forth anything and everything, from the spiders in his cupboard to Dudley hunting him with his friends, to faces he'd never before seen, an elderly woman carrying an enormous birthday cake out into a garden, a girl on a pony… to Voldemort's resurrection, that botched rescue mission at the Department of Mysteries, Sirius faling through the veil… His dad, sitting him on a child's broomstick; Remus, carrying him at what looked like a funeral; a huge black dog, doing a backflip in the air to catch a red frisbee, turning in the next instant into a laughing, handsome young man, who accepted a pint of beer from a tall blonde woman that looked several months pregnant, stealing a kiss from her before it too, faded into another memory.

Each scene playing before his mind's eye was as vivid as the next, alive as memories buried for years surfaced again, and he could recognise faces he never knew he knew, complete partial pictures, understand, to some extent, what was going on...

Flying horses. Death Eaters. Dementors. Moody, in front of a blackboard set out of doors, laughing harshly at some chelmish answer to his quizzing. A stone chute, filled with mud at the bottom. Bellatrix, hunting him and Chris down deserted streets… There was no ending it; the memories started speeding up, swirling around him, faster, faster…

* * *

A glass was hovering in front of his fogged eyes, never quite coming into focus.

"Here, drink this. And try to keep it down." He was back at Grimmauld Place, back on the old, torn-up carpet of the Drawing Room. Harry sat up dizzily, supporting himself on one hand, while the other reached shakily for the proffered glass of water.

"Feeling better?" Chris asked, crouching next to him and looking him up and down quizzically. Harry nodded, swallowing and tasting bitter bile in his mouth. He righted his glasses, which were dangling off one ear, in an attempt to regain his focus.

"_What was that_?" he breathed.

"The truth." Chris answered simply, then shrugged one shoulder. "He unlocked you."

"Wasn't aware I was locked," Harry mumbled, trying to make sense of it all while simultaneously attempting, rather poorly, to regain control of his motor muscles.

"Of course not," was the condescending reply. Harry looked up at the younger boy next to him, silently demanding a better explanation. An explanation, period.

"All right, all right," Chris said, getting to his feet with a groan and pulling out his wand. "I'll tell you what I know. Sit over there." He gestured at the nearby sofa, clearing off the splatters of sick and shuffling over after Harry, who staggered to the sofa as instructed, wishing the world would stop that tilting and spinning around.

"I reckon it'll be hard for you for a few days," he began, "but I believe you'll get a grip on things soon." Harry was having a hard time following already. Get a _wha_? "You better—he's not doing too good, and he won't get better unless you try and control it too."

"Control _what_, exactly?"

"Those fits, what else?" Harry didn't know how to even start going on about _that_.

"That's what it is?" he asked, trying not to slur his words.

"I reckon," Chris answered. "Gramps tried to find a cure for years. He didn't manage, not quite at any rate."

"A cure?" Ah, but wasn't he the perfect example of wit and a ready mind at the moment. He decided to sip his water, which was soothingly cool, refreshing his throat. It felt raw and strained, as if he'd screamed himself hoarse. He couldn't remember uttering a sound, though.

"For this link you have with Connor," Chris told him, gesturing in the air as he hunted for a way to put it. "It's twisted—Those visions of Voldemort you have…" That he was saying the name made Harry give it more than a passing notice. "He gets them too. You get hurt, or upset or something… He's right there. And he goes all stiff and shaking. It's gotten pretty bad some times." He snorted without much humour at Harry's blank look. "What, you think it's some sort of blessing, being in your head?"

"No," Harry replied. "I just…" He shook his head, to clear it, or to try and think, he didn't know. It wasn't working, whatever it was. "How is that possible?"

Again, a shrug for an answer.

"I said I'd tell you what I _know_, I can't tell you what I don't," Chris stated. "He's had those dreams, or whatever you want to call them, since we were little. Nobody really knows why. He'd have nightmares, about a cupboard under the stairs, and this fat bloke and his fat kid… But it got really bad around the time you started at Hogwarts. That business with the Philosopher's Stone—"

"You know about that?"

"He fell off a horse," Chris said, ignoring him. "I thought he'd cop it—we were racing, and he fell back. When I turned to look, I saw him flailing around, screaming. Then he seized up and fell off. He was out cold for days, nobody could figure out what all was wrong with him. Not until later."

Harry swallowed. He'd been out cold for days too, after the business with the Stone.

"Afterwards, he said it was like being in two places at once." That was something Harry could relate to, at least.

"I've been getting… I've been seeing through him too, but… How's that work?"

Chris only raised an eyebrow.

"I mean," Harry said, trying hard to phrase it properly, "I'd never gotten those… I guess you can call them visions. Whatever. I'd never got them before." Not from another kid he'd never even seen, at any rate.

"Course not," Chris answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Gramps put up wards while Connor was in St. Mungo's that once. High enough, far enough, so the link would be broken. It didn't quite work—Connor kept getting those visions, all the wards did was keep anyone else from getting anything from him."

"To keep me out," Harry supplied.

"To keep you out," Chris confirmed. "It was good enough, I s'pose. For a while. It helped keep us safe."

"Until…"

"Until he died, yeah. I imagine you got it hard then, all those spells stopped working properly, all at once." Chris shrugged. "Connor had it bad then too, I reckon. He's told me some. He used to tell me everything that happened, and we'd try and piece things together, but he stopped doing that."

"Why?"

"Last thing he told me was he'd get this recurrent dream, about a corridor, and a door, and a room full of… What were they?"

"Spheres," Harry whispered, stomach clenching.

"That would be the one, yeah. It was driving him mental. Then one night a couple of months ago I heard him thrash around like mad. It was a bad fit." A 'bad fit' hardly sufficed to describe what had happened then. He could see it all over again; the flight on the Thestrals, the ambush, Sirius' death… Voldemort possessing him. It had been a nightmare. "He wouldn't tell me what he saw. Hasn't said a word about any of it since."

Suddenly Connor's open contempt was a lot easier for Harry to understand. He'd as good as killed his… father.

And so much else besides.

"I read some of what happened in the papers," Chris went on. "He hasn't breathed a thing about that, or what's going on now, either, but I've got eyes. Grams tried to help him with it when she was around, and I reckon she sort of managed to help him keep a grip. But she's gone now, and he's hardly sleeping. He's awake half the night, and when he does get some sleep, he doesn't rest. He keeps talking in his sleep, moaning and writhing. I reckon it's because you're not sleeping either."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry," Harry said, and it was honest.

"What, like you can do anything about it? As far as I know, you're shite at keeping them in check," Chris said, shaking his head. "What makes you think you could keep anything from leaving your head and going to his?"

"I… I don't know."

"Too right you don't," Chris replied. "But you will—you _should_ figure out how to do it. It'll kill him one of these days." Which wasn't really doing much by way of helping anything at all.

"I thought they were just… just dreams." It put everything in a new perspective, all he'd been seeing and hearing of late… it was still impossible to wrap his mind around it, though.

"Yeah, well. They're not," Chris answered. "And I reckon you'll be getting loads more. Gramps put up this block, but he only managed to shut you off, not him. Now the block is down, you'll see more too. It's only fair."

"So that's why he's mad at me."

"No. He's mad at you because you do nothing about it."

"What _can_ I do?"

"Kill Voldemort?" Chris suggested, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Harry could see it wasn't meant as a joke.

"Easier said than done."

"I reckon it is," Chris conceded, shrugging. "But it's got to be you. Either that, or you can do something so he can get a go at living without you hacking at his head every five minutes."

Harry didn't know what to make of it. He was still shell-shocked over what had happened, what was _still_ happening, and he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

It made sense though. A strange, twisted sort of sense, but sense nonetheless.

"What's the thing with Sirius?" he asked, deciding to get to the other bit of news he still had trouble with.

"There's no _thing_ _with Sirius_," Chris replied, suddenly curt. "Bloke was our dad," he muttered, kicking at the foot of the sofa with his heel.

"He never mentioned having kids." Not that Harry had ever tried to learn more about what his Godfather had gotten around to doing before he got stuck in Azkaban. But he did believe Sirius would have at least _tried_ to get in touch with his kids. He wasn't the sort to just ditch someone, was he?

No, he wasn't.

"I don't reckon he knew about us being alive," Chris said, and Harry could sense the same sort of bitterness he'd sensed in Connor welling up. "Or he didn't remember. But if he forgot, I don't reckon he did out of his own choosing. I reckon Gramps made him forget, just like he made everyone else forget we existed. Connor believes otherwise, though."

"Why?" It was a simple question, but Harry could tell the answer was anything but; Chris was hesitating.

"How much do you know about the time before you were sent to live with those muggles?" he asked in return.

"Not really much." And Harry had reasons to believe what he knew wasn't nearly enough, either. Another thing he'd never really bothered to find out about, taking what little he did know for a fact, and leaving it at that.

"Figures." Chris briefly raised his eyes to the ceiling, heaving a sigh. Just like Sirius used to, when he was about to talk about something nasty or difficult. Harry could now appreciate the similarities, could link them to the face they evoked, and it was possible, now, to tell who they belonged to. The twins were to Sirius what Harry was to James; a copy, with deliberate differences so small it was hard to tell them apart.

"You do know your parents and Sirius had a plan to fool Voldemort, don't you?"

Harry nodded mutely, that much he _did_ know.

"Well, at least something," Chris commented. "I'm betting you know the official tale, don't you," Harry didn't know what to say to that either, so he only nodded again.

"You see, originally our dad was supposed to be _your_ Secret Keeper. But he got second thoughts about it. Didn't want to be tortured into telling, or conned into it, I reckon. Connor believes he got cold feet."

"He's not much of a fan, I've noticed."

"Can you blame him?" Chris asked him in return, cocking his head to the side. Harry had no answer for that, so he resumed, with a small scoff. "Whatever the case, they picked that rat Pettigrew, and… Well, you know the rest that went down. What nobody really knows is, Sirius had gotten together with our mum, and we were well on the way by the time they decided to go into hiding."

Harry hadn't heard of that, not even a mention… Ever.

"I reckon they were desperate, what with Voldemort and all the Death Eaters on their heels all the time, and you being just a tiny ankle-biter and us being nothing but buns in the oven and all. I don't reckon that prophecy did much to help matters along much, either."

"You… you know about _that_?" Was there anything these boys _didn't_ know?

"Don't look so surprised," Chris suggested, looking grimly amused. "It makes you look rather dimmer than you are, and mate, it's a fair bit. That propecy's the reason it's all so ruddy screwed, isn't it? The reason you're hunted like the last butterbeer in the Arctic winter, the reason your parents are dead, the reason Gramps got killed… And our mum, and our dad, and so many others." He'd risen to his feet while speaking, his voice growing harder, more bitter as he carried on with his list. Harry had trouble not flinching away. "So many dead, so many lives torn to little bits. All for you."

The tone in which it was delivered, the finality of it, made something inside Harry crack.

"It's not like I wanted any of it to happen!" Harry snapped heatedly. "I didn't choose any of this!"

"You're pissing in the wind if you think that's going to get you any sympathy from this end," Chris told him coolly, effectively shutting him up. He hadn't wanted sympathy, had he?

_Had_ he?

"You wanted the _truth_; now you get to deal with it. We've had to, all our lives."

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. His head was still spinning, buzzing with thoughts, answers, and more questions than when this started.

"It was Gramps who helped them with the Fidelius Charms," Chris continued his tale after a few eternally long moments. "Connor's never had much patience for the story, but Grams told me once how it was back then, for them. Attacks every other day, wearing them down, the shaves getting narrower every time… I reckon that ought to excuse them for not seeing the obvious. They _did_ know there was a spy, though. They just missed exactly _who_ it was, didn't they." Harry turned his glass round in his hands, finding it easier to focus on it than on Chris.

"They'd planned for the worst, in a way. I figure they knew it could happen at any moment, so they prepared for it as best they could… Your dad was mum's Secret Keeper, and in the likely event our dad copped it, he'd be our guardian, just like Sirius was yours. But then they were betrayed… and everything was shot to shite."

That was a way of putting it.

"We were born that night Voldemort offed your parents," Chris said, in a thoughtful sort of tone. "I like to think that our dad would've stuck around if he'd known, y'know, that we were there. But as it was, he was more… occupied… gathering up what was left of your parents then, getting you out of the rubble, losing his marbles, that sort of thing."

"He was—" Harry began hotly, but Chris cut him off, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Harry's mouth snapped shut.

"You don't need to defend him with me," he said calmly, almost offhandedly. "Don't waste your breath. He made his choices, didn't he? They all did."

"_He lost his head_!"

"Yeah, that he did." Chris agreed quietly, but then shrugged it off again, carrying on with his story. "Mum lived right across the street from your family. That blast when you offed Voldemort… It happened just as Connor was being born. It nearly killed mum."

"Wha?" Of all the things… Harry couldn't but stare at the other boy, aghast.

"She did the same thing your mum did for you, she chose to die so Connor could live. Gramps had a hard time coming to terms with that. It did mess things up some more and all…"

Suddenly Connor's words earlier were clear as the water he was holding. '_You lived, you sorry little shite_'. Harry swallowed. Undeterred, Chris carried on.

"Mum lived long enough to name us; James and Sirius. I reckon that's the only reason Gramps let us keep the names… Because she picked them. She was a bit of a sap, our mum." Oh. So _he_ was James. Harry'd been wondering what his real name was.

"Grams told me that's when dad came running in, after that giant bloke took you away to the Muggles. Went completely round the bend when he saw mum, not that he'd been completely sane before, mind. And Gramps, well… I'm not sure what happened, really. Grams said he lost his head too, but I have my doubts… If there ever was one to know what to do, no matter what, it was him. Grams said Gramps told him we were all dead, and took us into hiding." Harry could only imagine what sort of blow that would have been for Sirius. "Made everyone forget we'd ever existed. Connor believes dad ditched us, though… that he knew we'd lived and chose to leave anyway."

"What do _you_ believe?" Harry rasped out. He couldn't have spoken any louder if he'd tried, past that rock-hard lump lodged in his throat.

"I believe he did what he had to do," Chris answered, but Harry had the distinct sensation that he was trying to convince himself… And that it wasn't the first time he did that either.

Looking up, Harry saw that he too was focusing on something else rather than on him; he was looking at the tapestry, hands in his pockets, a certain hollow air about him that made him realise that relating the story was as hard for Chris as it was hard for him to hear.

"The way things worked out… It was one _royal_ mess. He was in worse danger than ever, got all those crimes pinned on him in a blinking…" Chris raised his eyebrows, cocked his head to the other side. "I reckon being a Black didn't help him much there either," he said, looking the charred family tree over with a small, humourless smile. "Dark blood will out and all that rot. Everyone lapped Fudge's story right up."

"Yeah," Harry mumbled, swallowing.

"After he got chucked in Azkaban, Gramps tried to make a case for him, but there was no proof to back it up, they'd had done things so thoroughly it was impossible to prove he hadn't copped anyone; Gramps couldn't convince Dumbledore, even—Or rather, Dumbledore didn't want to be convinced." Harry looked at him sharply, what did _that_ mean? "Much less Fudge—that fat bastard used the notorious Black capture to get the Ministry for himself. He wasn't going to let dad go so easily." Chris paused, then shrugged that off as well. "Everyone was ready to believe anything, no matter how stupid. Just like now."

Harry remained silent, shaking his head. He'd known Sirius lost everything after his parents died, had never thought it would have been so much more than what he'd believed it to be.

"Did you ever see him? After he escaped?" Chris shook his head, no.

"Gramps asked us if we wanted to… He helped him go to the Antilles or something, with that hippogriff of his. Connor didn't want to see him."

"Did you?"

Chris shrugged.

"I couldn't see what good it would do. Bloke never even knew about us, or else he had that memory block, so it was pretty much the same thing… He'd sworn himself to you, to fighting the war, so that pretty much wiped us from the picture."

"But you were his _family_," Harry argued. "If he'd known about you—"

"He'd probably have wanted to stick around, who knows." Chris finished for him, conceding the point fairly. "And who'd have looked after _you_ then, eh? He had a duty to fulfill, one that was more important than either of us." One Harry botched up beyond recognition.

Again, Harry had no answer to that, but he didn't agree with what he was hearing. Sirius would have been _wild_ to meet his kids, no matter the circumstance, the danger, or the cost. He'd earned that right, in spades. But this too, was denied him. Harry couldn't help wondering, if Sirius were alive _now_, what would the state of things be?

Nothing compared to what he was facing, he was sure.

"I'm not here to convince you of anything," Chris broke the silence, reading his mind as if he'd spoken aloud. "I'm just here to tell you how it is. You don't need to like it, it's still the truth."

He _didn't_ like it, that much was certain.

"Look, what's done is done," Chris said after another moment, sighing. "The bloke did what he could under the circumstances, and so did everyone else. It's stupid to argue over what could have been, when it's long over and they're all dead. Instead of wondering _why_ they did what they did, we ought to focus on what we'll do about things as they are _now_. Wishful thinking's wishful thinking, nothing more."

Maybe, but Harry couldn't help it anymore than he could help wanting to get one thing straight.

"He _wasn't_ an idiot, though."

"I never even met him, how could I know?" Chris' tone was rather bland, the offhand tone back to the forefront. Harry got to his feet, moving to the window, head buzzing with more answers than he'd ever thought he'd get, hundreds of questions being generated the more he turned it over, threatening to make his brain explode. "Connor's got his reasons to be mad at him… and at you," Chris stated. "And I respect those. You ought to do the same."

"It's hard to respect what you can't understand," Harry replied, looking out the grimy panes and at the derelict old park outside, which was bathed in the same grey drizzle that had covered it all day and held no more advice than the rest of the world. The sun was setting, but oncoming nightfall, Harry believed, would bring no more clarity to him than daytime had so far.

"All you can do, then, is _try_ to understand." Harry wasn't sure he would be able to. He wasn't certain of anything anymore, and yet, what he'd just heard… It was overwhelming, yes. But it _made sense_. The rug had been pulled cleanly from under his feet; he didn't know what to do about any of this, or what conclusions to get to.

"Do you get them too?" he asked. It wasn't as out of the blue as it might have seemed.

"No, I don't get them," Chris answered levelly, catching on at once. "I don't see through your eyes or spaz out, if that's what you mean."

"But you _know_. Deep inside, you always know what's happening." It wasn't a question, which was perhaps what surprised Harry the most; he had started wanting to make sure of a doubt, ended up making a statement.

"We're twins. Sort of comes with the package."

* * *

There was a certain _something_ about a battle Tonks feared she'd never get used to; the buzz of excitement right before they apparated together, the momentary confusion as they reached their target site, the rush of adrenalin as they launched the attack—or in this case, the defence—against the Death Eaters, but the moment her boots touched ground, for a fleeting moment every time, she wondered what in the seven circles of hell she was doing, could not understand what prompted anyone to hurt anyone else, couldn't see the point in what they were doing, wished the war didn't pit brothers against each other. And during this one instant, this blink of an eye, she had this urge to just leave the entire world behind, hide in a cave, and forget about it all. And during this time, she just _knew_ it was the right thing to do.

One blink of an eye.

The next instant, the thought was gone, once more replaced by the war-happiness that was a characteristic trait of her family; she _liked_ to duel, and the momentary wavering gone, her head was as clear as ever, she suddenly knew again why she was doing what she was doing, why she'd chosen the life she had, and that, she _did_ act upon.

Every time.

"Potter was right—They're already here!" Moody's familiar bark was as comforting as his words were unsettling.

"We're not blind, Mad-Eye," George quipped from a foot or two away. Tonks snickered, even if the situation didn't warrant it; they were standing on the Longbottoms' lawn, and the damage was clearly visible even from here, the yelling, flashes of spells, noises of things breaking, all evidence enough of the goings-on inside.

"We're not deaf either," Fred added brightly from her other side, casting a blasting curse at the nearest window, where he could see two dark figures running around, to lob one of their newest products, the Sticky Bomb something or other, into the dining room. "Yell at _them_, not us."

"Yeah, now they all know we're here too," Tonks supplied brightly, grabbing on to the nearest person to keep from toppling over. "Sorry, Hestia, these roots—you'd think they'd learn to stay out of the way."

"It'll rock the room in three...two... one."

George's warning did not go ignored. As one, every Order member sought a way to apparate or blast their way inside, avoiding the dining room as well as they could. The Twins' Sticky Bomb did not only make a prodigious amount of noise-- having left them both deaf for a few days upon testing-- but it also glued any wizard within range to the ceiling, with little hope to be gotten down before an hour's time... when it stopped gluing newcomers to the said ceiling.

In patterns.

With their knickers attached to their faces.

Tonks had been to the Longbottom house several times, which allowed her to apparate into the front room without much trouble, even as the entire house shook from the blast. Startled screams reached her ears, mingled with shouted spells and the blinding flashes of multicoloured light they emitted as they were cast. None of that bothered her overmuch; she was too accustomed to it to be disoriented. The debris littering the ground was far more of a challenge to her, not to mention, she barely manged to dodge what was flying _at_ her.

Neville was soaring across the once prim and tidy room with a scream, crashing into a settee and upturning it, while two masked Death Eaters followed suit, one of them fairly dragging one leg.

"That'll teach you to hex me, you worthless lump," Dolohov snapped, blasting the settee aside while clutching his leg, as the other rounded in on Tonks, who yelled out a Hurling Hex and leapt aside, even as a green flash of light illuminated the room and hit the far wall, and the as yet unnamed Death Eater hit a bookcase, which fell over him.

"Die, blood traitor," Dolohov said, pointing his wand at Neville, who was trying to get to his feet, heaving for a breath. "_Avada Kedavra_!"

"_No_!" Green light filled the room a second time, much too close—

And blasted a hole right through the floor.

Tonks took quick aim, sending a Hammer Hex at Dolohov, who toppled over with a yell, which was cut off abruptly as Reductor Curse whizzed past her, hitting him full in the chest.

She'd never seen Neville so angry.

"Wotcher, Neville," she said, helping the dishevelled lad up. "Good aim. Alright?"

"They're cornering Gran upstairs," Neville answered with a shaky nod, already leading the way to the doors. "Good thing you arrived—who else is here?"

"Everyone," Tonks answered, hurrying out after him.

"Let's get them, then."

This was easier said than done: Everywhere around them, there was debris blocking the way; bookcases blasted apart, bits of wall and ceiling raining on them as they tried to climb the stairs. George—or Fred, there was no telling who—was pointing his wand and laughing at a Death Eater hovering in midair by his ankle, who was furiously fighting his robes, which were flapping around on his head, exposing some sort of dark green underpants that were… rather less than flattering.

And then Neville went crashing to the floor with a startled cry.

"Where do you think you're going?" One of the Lestrange brothers had, somehow, managed to appear right behind them, and whipping around, Tonks saw it was Rabastan towering over them, his brother approaching from behind. "Longbottom is ours."

_Like hell. _

Tonks delivered her answer in the form of a Stunner, and soon spells were flying back and forth. She spun a circle around Neville, who was struggling against invisible bonds, cursing in frustration. Rodolphus added himself to the mix, and in between deflecting curses aimed at Neville and herself, and retaliating as best as she could, Tonks had no chance of freeing the boy.

Help came in the form of the upside-down Death Eater-gone-projectile, who was thrown against Rabastan, flattening him.

"Just like tenpin bowling," Fred—or George—chortled, but Rodolphus was quick to react—a spell missed him by a mere inch, and the wall behind him cracked.

Then it exploded.

"Look out—" Tonks cried out, throwing up a hasty shield to protect herself and Neville from the wreckage, but it was already coming crashing down in a cloud of dust. "George!" She couldn't see anything, and there was no time to lose. She cast a Reductor Curse at Lestrange, missed, took the small opening to see if George had been hit— "_George_!" she yelled again, stunning the other Lestrange as he tried to get up.

"It's—Fred," a familiar voice corrected to her immense relief, and he emerged from the settling dust the next moment, covered in the stuff from head to toe. His wand was aimed straight at her, and a quick glance told her Lestrange was approaching from behind. "That could've squashed me flat," Fred said. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're trying to kill me—_Reducto_!" Tonks threw herself onto the floor atop Neville, and a cry of pain told her Fred had managed to hit Lestrange—and that Neville wasn't taking too kindly to being squished.

"Sorry," she said, peeling herself off Neville and freeing him with a muttered, "Finite." There was no time for further conversation, though; Fred was fighting Lestrange, soon joined by George, who was coming from outside, sporting a cut on the side of his head.

"Come on," Tonks told Neville, giving him a hand up and kicking a stirring Rabastan in the face. "We need to get you out of here."

"We need to get Gran," Neville wheezed, Tonks rolled her eyes.

"In case you haven't noticed, it's _you_ they're after," she said, dragging him back down as a spell whizzed past, entirely too close for comfort. Hestia bolted past them, chasing yet another Death Eater into the kitchen, where an almighty clatter momentarily drowned out all sound. "We'll get her; right now we need to get you somewhere safe—"

"I'm not going anywhere without her!" Neville shot back, tearing himself away from her and heading for the stairs again.

Tonks cursed under her breath, following.

"Up here," Neville said harshly, even as Fred and George lobbed Lestrange into the dining room with a cackle.

Cries and shouted spells rent the air, which was buzzing thick with magic. The walls shook from the spells hitting them, and looking up, Tonks had a glimpse of a crystal chandelier shaking ominously right over their heads. Soon her attention was snapped back to her immediate vicinity, however—someone fell from the upstairs storey, rolling down the stairs upon landing—all she could see was that it was a Death Eater—and they barely managed to avoid being hit and dragged down. Neville gave him a sound kick in passing, grabbing Tonks' arm and pulling her along.

"C'mon," he urged, reaching the top of the stairs and thrusting his arm forward at once. "_Stupefy_! _Everbero_! Gran, where are you?"

As if in response, a keening wail was heard, loud and piercing and chilling to the bone.

There was no need to see it to know what was happening: Augusta Longbottom had just been hit with the Cruciatus. Paling, Neville sped up, following the sound to its source, ignoring everything around him. Tonks could barely keep up, and keep him from getting hit by spells left and right.

"Wait, dammit. _Neville_!" But it met with deaf ears, and any amount of swearing she did helped not a jot to make him listen.

The upper levels were in much the same state as the rest of the house. Tonks narrowly managed to shove Neville aside as a door was blasted clean off its hinges, followed by Bill, who, upon hitting the ground, raffled himself up and retaliated with a Bone Crushing Hex, before he hurled back into the room. Moody was barking something unintelligible at a Death Eater she recognised as Rookwood, as they traded spells with incredible speed—

They'd reached the end of a corridor, which opened into a solarium, which was now missing a few panes. Tonks skidded to a halt and made Neville stop before he lunged headlong into the room

"Watch it!" It was not one second too soon; a Killing Curse shot past, flaring green and smashing an entire side of the tainted glass windows in.

"LEAVE HER ALONE!" Neville bellowed furiously, wand raised and aimed at the two Death Eaters cornering the frail-looking witch, who had backed away and was presently against the wall.

"Or else _what_?" A lazy voice asked, and one of the Death Eaters turned around. Neville froze, wide-eyed, chest heaving without breathing.

It was Bellatrix.

"You'll wet your nappy?" She cackled, turning her wand on him now.

"The boy is to be brought in _alive_," the other wizard said, without turning around, but Bellatrix ignored his warning tone and advanced in on Neville, who stood, wand still raised and battered, a few steps into the room.

"Oh, but I've missed you, little chub." The tone was chillingly affectionate. "Can you scream louder than she does? Let's find out—_Crucio_!"

The scream that followed was deafening.

* * *

Hogwarts was very quiet during the holidays as a common rule, bathed in a sort of slumbering state during the months between term and term. The repairs having to be made this year were few, and most of the faculty had taken advantage of the holidays to go on a well-earned vacation themselves. Even the school poltergeist had taken some time off; as the summer wore on, the level of noise and sound in the ancient wizarding school was reduced to the quiet scuttling of the House Elves going about their tasks, or Hagrid's work with some of the more dangerous magical creatures under his care out in the grounds.

Today was no different, and the sleepy quiet still pervaded the entire castle and grounds—save for one chamber.

Albus Dumbledore's office was alive with dozens of voices, all arguing at the same time. And yet, had anyone stepped into the room, all they would have been able to see would have been the old headmaster, pacing the office by himself, his pet phoenix for sole company and surrounded by a few score portraits, whose occupants were dozing in their frames.

These were neither quiet nor slumbering at the moment, however, busy pitted against each other in a debate that was more than just two-sided, and which was showing no signs of being over yet.

"My dear friends, _please_," Dumbledore said placatingly, for perhaps the third time. It went unheard by most, but his time was running out, and they were not helping him think, as he'd hoped.

"I do need to find the answer to several matters, not just this one," he reminded them. "And I would like to reach a conclusion before news comes from the Longbottoms."

"But the Potter boy. Surely this scrap of parchment can wait until you have found a solution for his situation—" Dilys Derwent said sternly. She had never been one for Divination. Neither had Albus, not until he was given the Prophecy of the Chosen One… and now the one he had spread out on top of his desk. "If he does not have a Guardian before he turns sixteen, the Trace shall fall off him, he'll come of age early, and that could be disastrous."

"He's old enough to be unbound, isn't he?" Everard muttered. "In my time, you came of age at fifteen."

"Yes, but he's got the blood magic protecting him until he's of age—"

"If he doesn't have a guardian in two days, he'll lose the blood protection."

"Maybe that's how it has to be, ever thought of that?"

"Fabio, you know he's a mediocre wizard at best; he needs all the protection he can get, for as long as he can get it."

"I shall address the matter with him as soon as possible," Dumbledore said, loud enough to make himself heard over the babble.

"Who shall you appoint?"

"Shouldn't the boy be asked whom _he_ would wish to have as a Guardian?"

"After that good-for-nothing great-great-grandson of mine?" Phineas scoffed. "A baboon on a laxative potion could do a better job."

"Enough," Dumbledore said sternly. "I know it's hard for you to accept, Phineas, but Sirius did do a good job of it. As well as he could under the circumstances, and despite our intervention."

"Yes, get over it," Citronella said primly. "He was a good boy, and ever so handsome…"

"And a cock-up," Phineas maintained.

"I was thinking of appointing…" Dumbledore tried once more.

"Minerva," Dilys supplied at once. "She'd be capital at the job, and she offered once to take care of him."

"I was thinking more along the lines of…"

"Not the werewolf," Everard said. "Think of the political consequences—"

"The Black kid was an escaped convict, yet he didn't lose his rights as a guardian," Fortescue interrupted. "The werewolf isn't too bad an idea… Except for the bit where he's—"

"A _werewolf, _perhaps?" Phineas suggested shrewdly.

"Afraid of the commitment," Fortescue finished dryly.

"Not to mention, a werewolf," Phineas supplied, in a smug, irritating tone that brooked no arguments.

"What about Molly Weasley? She's as good as raised the boy."

"Molly is having a hard time coping," Dumbledore said delicately. "She did not approve of her younger children running off with Harry last term, and she is having her doubts as to so much as allowing them

around him. Arthur is willing to take him in, as are her older sons, but she is reluctant to take on such a momentous task."

Dilys merely rolled her eyes, but once more, the portraits felt the need to share their thoughts.

"She has to think of her family," said Armando Dippet. "You cannot blame her, all her brothers died in the first war, and she has seven children who are being targeted for direct connection with the Potter boy."

"They did all survive the battle at the Department of Mysteries, though," Citronella supplied.

"And they might not do so the next time," Everard pointed out.

"I fear Harry's credibility has suffered greatly amongst the Order," Dumbledore said. "His visions of Voldemort have always unsettled them; and he was manipulated into going to the Department of Mysteries, which, as we well know, was a disaster. They believe he cannot be trusted, though his intentions are good—there is no way of telling whether what he is seeing is the truth or not, not without a substantial risk to anyone involved."

"Well, what did they expect?" Phineas asked. "The boy is a hothead, and Voldemort knows that as well as everyone. It makes him fallible, and predictable."

"Who did you want to be his guardian, then?" Dilys prompted, tapping her frame warningly with her wand. Phineas lost the smug expression, eyeing her warily.

"I was thinking of asking Alastor," Dumbledore answered. "But he has recently taken in two wards, whose guardianship he was also recently given."

"Oh yes, the McAlpin boys, isn't it?"

He nodded heavily.

"Perhaps Minerva will take the job. I would rather Molly did it, but I cannot force her into taking him in. I shall conference with them tonight."

"As long as it's not the werewolf," Phineas drawled lazily.

"There is another matter of importance I wished to address," Dumbledore told them, stopping his pacing up and down his office, and gesturing to his desk.

"The colour of your new purse?" asked Dilys, feigning innocence and gesturing at the feathered, hot pink and purple item sitting atop the desk. "Pink has never suited you, no matter how much you like it or how fluffy it is, lad." Dumbledore smiled mildly.

"I happen to be fond of it," he told her. "But I meant the letter I received from Angus McAlpin, the day after he died. It contains several pieces of information I am having trouble putting together. I was hoping you could aid me to do so."

"What all are we talking about, then?" Phineas asked, showing a glint of curiosity that was very rarely seen. The other former Hogwarts Heads also leaned forward, likewise intrigued, now the issues they had deemed more important were settled. They always loved new challenges to their minds, new developments. It probably took care of the monotony of being, well, a portrait. Dumbledore suspected it was because of this that they had left this matter for last.

"The main piece of this puzzle is a prophecy," he informed the portraits. "Angus told me very little about it, just that it was a complement to the one I already have. I cannot understand what it means…"

"As is the case with just about every prophecy made."

"You'd think the Seers would try being less cryptic. Why can't they just tell it as it is? Or will be?"

"It's their sport, I wager."

"What is the fun in trying to crack the riddles otherwise?"

"Does Voldemort know of this one?" Phineas asked.

Albus shook his head.

"Let us hear it then." Dumbledore nodded, striding to his chair and sitting down.

"_When the Second Darkness befalls us, when the Dark One walks again; when fear and darkness reign and the soul-less roam the land, then shall the Didymoi come forth, set into motion the Time of the Turning_."

"Sounds like what's happening now, doesn't it?" Citronella pointed out, tapping her nose with her birch rod wand.

"Time of the Turning, eh?" Phineas scoffed, shaking his head. "They get fancier every time."

"Don't you mean more ridiculous?" Everard wondered, smirking.

"Hush now, he's not done yet." Dilys snapped, moving out of her frame and into Armando Dippet's, who had to scoot aside to make room for her.

"For someone not interested in Divination, you're certainly keen," Armando said, squeezing his chair out of the way so he too, could hear the rest.

"It's not that I am _interested_ in it," Dilys said primly, "it's that _he'll_ act upon it. Again." She gestured at Dumbledore impatiently. "Go on now, boy, I want to hear the rest."

"If you'd pack it in for a minute, you'd let him finish."

Dumbledore couldn't bring himself to smile at the exchange. Instead, he cleared his throat again, popped a sherbert lemon in his mouth, and carried on reading.

"_Of kin, yet not of kin; Princes, sons of Princes sons of Kings. Old pacts hold fast, unbroken by death or strife. As the Fathers, two as one; by choice and blood bonded, conjoined in heart, mind, soul. Fates entwined, two yet one: one hope for the Light—or the Dark._

_Feared by the Dark One the Didymoi are, yet by him made, unwittingly—his undoing and his victory he created. Blindly he shall wish, fear, crave for this power, for he shall know it upon sight. Should he manage all is lost; for a thousand years and one, Light no more shall bless the land. _

_Three wills as one, as two.__ Three, at war. One, champion for the Dark, self-appointed. One, chosen champion of the Light; marked by Darkness, yet untainted, holds a power unknown. One, the twice-born, kept in secret, holds the key. Choices weigh hard, appearances deceive. Dark and Light crash, collide. Duality unmade, victory of Light or Dark lies in their hands… For a thousand years and one._"

There was a long, thoughtful silence in the office after Dumbledore had finished reading the Didymos Prophecy for a third time. Even Fawkes was watching the wizened wizard intently, as if he too, were waiting for a verdict on the text.

It was Fortescue who broke the silence.

"Well, son," he stated, folding his hands over his rather prominent belly with a chuckle. "That certainly made no sense at all."

It would be a long evening.

* * *

"They're talking about sacking Fudge," Chris commented aloud, turning a page on the Prophet. Lying on the other bed, Connor merely scoffed, not bothering to so much as look at his brother.

Night had fallen, and a storm was lashing London, rattling the shutters and drumming a rhythmical tattoo against the windows. There was, as yet, no news from the Order or the Longbottoms, and the few inhabitants left at Grimmauld Place had drifted apart after a silent, tense dinner, as though by an unspoken agreement; there was little else to do but wait, and none wanted the others' company.

"Says here people are rioting," Chris went on, seemingly unbothered by the fact he was getting largely ignored, much as he had been all evening. "Looks like they're starting to believe Fudge fudged it up. They're on about the disappearances, too. Another three kids have gone missing…"

"Four," Connor corrected, and even this one word came out grudgingly. He had been sulking ever since he unlocked Harry, and this was perhaps the first word he'd spoken since; grunts didn't qualify as a valid form of conversation, after all, for all they told volumes. Chris raised an eyebrow; he'd expected to get the silent treatment at least until the next day.

"You'd think they'd at least get it right," he quipped, but there was nothing light-hearted in the way he was looking his brother over. He was facing the wall though, away from him, so there was little he could infer by observation alone. "When was the last?"

"This morning." It was a disturbing thing to hear. Chris lowered the paper, biting his lip. Connor had stopped telling him what he saw months ago, but he had every reason to believe it was because what he was seeing had reached a whole new level.

"Do you know what they want them for?"

"No. But I bet it's not a casting for a play."

The silence was restored; Chris reluctantly turned to the paper again, but he couldn't focus on what he was reading, busy instead turning matters over in his head. Everything was a mess, as far from good as it could possibly get, but it wasn't like Connor to be _this_ bitter. If he traced it back, he could almost pinpoint when it had started—the day the fire broke out in stable seven—when things had begun to go from bad to worse. But they'd been in trouble before, and though it had never been _this_ bad, it had never threatened to make them drift apart.

They'd never kept secrets from each other before.

What _had_ Gramps told him? The question surfaced again, as it had so often in the past few days. Sure, Connor had told him some things, but not nearly everything, and Chris didn't need to be his twin to know something was deeply wrong; and he wanted to find an answer to that question before things got so much worse.

Perhaps it was that he was tired, he mused, skimming the paper without taking in a single word he was reading. He felt much the same after all, the constant aches from half-healed wounds could do that to one. And he knew Connor wasn't sleeping, just as Harry wasn't sleeping either. He wondered, for maybe the first time that day, if it had been the right thing to do, unlocking the Potter kid. Would the spaz fits lessen, as he hoped, or would they become worse, as he was starting to fear?

And… Would Connor have unlocked him anyway, even knowing it would make things worse?

"There's this article here," he said, propping himself up on one arm, "says there's reasons to believe one Sirius Black was really innocent of the crimes he is charged with."

"Bully for him," Connor muttered. Chris fell silent, lowering the paper.

"I know you hate the bloke," he said. "But even _you_ can't deny it's good news."

"Yeah, fat lot of good it does," Connor countered, sitting up and looking at Chris in exasperation. "The bloke's _dead_, what does it matter if people think him innocent _now_?"

"I don't know. It's just nice to know his name will be cleared, I s'pose."

"If you say so," Connor conceded, bunching up his pillow before burying his face in it. "Whoop-de-bloody-do. Go tell Potter of it, I bet he'll be so delighted he'll wet himself."

"Yeah, _right_," Chris answered with a small chuckle, shaking his head. "He'll probably have a breakdown or something."

"Sore topic and all," Connor concurred at a murmur, but he didn't elaborate.

He never did anymore.

"Don't you think we should give him a hand?" Chris asked after a moment's silence.

"You reckon?" Connor gave him a dismissive wave, running his good hand through his hair. "All he does is mope, for crying out loud. Give him a hanky, why don't you, as you're so keen on helping."

"He's as lost as we are," Chris insisted. "He doesn't know half of what he _should_—He doesn't know what to do, _at all_. He's been kept in the dark—"

"He hasn't done much to figure it out either," Connor said harshly.

"But not even the Order believe him--"

"I wouldn't either," Connor said. "If listening to him were sure to lead to me copping it."

"What do you mean?"

"The Supreme Sodhead," Connor said. "He plants stuff in his head. And he's _rubbish_ telling truth from lies. He just… acts out of reflex. You can't trust someone like that." He stood up, and for a moment Chris thought he'd stomp out of the room. Instead, he just went to the trunk Mad-Eye had brought, rummaged in it for a moment, then extracted a very battered tome of Muggle anatomy and returned to his bed, to read.

"Connor?" Chris ventured a while later, putting down the paper, where he'd been doodling on a picture of Fudge. The podgy Minister for Magic now sported horns, a black eye, was lacking several teeth, and had a moving caption on his forehead announcing he was a dolt.

"Hmm?" Connor had been doing some doodling of his own, in between examining notes stuck in between the pages of the book.

"What will happen now?"

"'Choo mean?"

"What will happen now," Chris repeated levelly, "now you've unlocked Potter?"

"I don't know." Connor shrugged one shoulder

"Pardon?"

"I… don't know what's going to happen?" Connor repeated, wrestling his arm out of the sling and leaning against the headboard.

"You don't have so much as a clue?" Chris couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Connor closed the book, setting it aside.

"Nah."

"Why'd you do it, then?"

"Well, like you said, it's only fair."

"Yeah, but... didn't you feel any change? Anything different?"

Connor shrugged again, then shook his head.

"I reckon you were right," he said after a moment. "Everything happens for a reason, doesn't it? And… Maybe that link thing is _supposed_ to be working for a reason. So I took the block down, to, dunno. See what happens."

"And are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah, I don't feel any different."

"He did, for sure." Chris had been meaning to tell him for hours. "He was properly shocked and things, twitching and writhing… What all did he see?"

"Everything he'd forgotten," Connor replied quietly, eyes fixed on the wall opposite. "Everything he'd missed." Chris let out a low whistle. He must've missed a lot, then.

"You reckon he'll pop?"

"It's not like I'd ever done it before, is it? Guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens."

Chris turned to the crossword, frowning at it. Wait and see, then, was the plan.

Could he be blamed if he didn't like it at all?

.

* * *

"Padfoot, mate…" James prompted for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes.

"Shh, I can hardly hear what they're saying over your yammer."

"Trot your furry arse closer, then."

"I like it from here." Sirius was leaning against the wall of Reg's old room, from where he was watching his boys, his new favourite pastime. With endless freedom and time on his hands at last, James hadn't thought he'd take to watching the living right away, but that's pretty much all he did. Most of the time, anyway, when he wasn't being dragged into doing something else by his best mate and assorted partners in crime.

Being dead, after all, was much more than just clinging to the living—something James could not, perhaps, claim to have learned; he'd spent most of his time around the living too, after all. However, now he and Sirius were together again, the greater part of his wait was over. He could focus on everything else there was to do, concentrate on showing Sirius all there was for him in the world of the dead, and make up for years of suffering as best as he could.

Not that he was alone in his endeavours. His parents, Alphard, Nina, the Prewetts, McKinnons, most of their friends who'd not survived the war either, and most surprisingly, Regulus—everyone had welcomed Sirius with open arms, when he'd finally made it through to them.

It was a good thing, he mused as he paced up and down the room while waiting for Sirius to have ogled his fill, that the Lands of the Dead were not bound to the limits of time. If they were, they wouldn't have the chance to do half of the stuff they got up to lately.

Because Sirius _liked_ it down here, or so he claimed.

_Liar, liar, pants on fire._

"You're not missing much," James informed after a moment, looking over Chris' shoulder. No matter how much they were called by other names, to him they were best known as Padfoot's Puppies. "Just more bitching over you…Oh look, he's improved Fudge."

Sirius came closer, snorting appreciatively at the paper on his eldest's lap, where an apoplectic and much deformed Fudge was shaking his fist at him.

"He's _good_," he commented proudly. "Wonder if he does portraits too."

"He does cartoons as well. Pretty decent, for a pup."

"Atta boy," Sirius said, returning to his post by the wall.

"We've been here for _hours_," James complained, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. "I'm bored."

A bouncy ball was lobbed in his direction by way of an answer.

"I'm making up for lost time," Sirius told him, his eyes never leaving the two bite-sized copies of him, who were presently discussing Harry, and the consequences of what they'd done earlier. "You've had years to do your staring, bear with me."

"I did your staring _for_ you, you ungrateful ponce," James muttered, perching on the backrest of a chair between the beds and lobbing the ball hard against the floor, watching it ricochet off the walls, the furniture, the boys... "For years, too. I deserve some entertainment."

In the past, this had sufficed for Sirius to pull some mad stunt out of his sleeve, and usually the most excellent of entertainments had followed…

"Prongs, a little quiet here?" Sirius prompted, looking nowhere near _close_ to so much as pulling a kerchief from his sleeve, gesturing at the kids on the beds instead.

_Well, then._ Some things did change, apparently.

"It's not like they can _hear_ it," James argued, gesturing at them as well. "Or… feel that ball bouncing off their heads, even. I hope."

"Sadly."

"Yeah… They wouldn't know what hit them," James agreed with a boyish snigger.

"Didn't know they had our old notes," Sirius said, sticking his head through the old trunk sitting at the foot of one of the beds. "Oy. This thing's full of interesting stuff."

"Angus got them out of the cottage after we copped it," James supplied, sticking his head through the trunk as well. "And your puppies found some of them years ago. Dunno how Angus got the important stuff to get into the trunk, though. It was all at his place, last I checked." Not that Sirius was paying much attention to this information. He was proudly surveying his offspring once more.

You'd think he'd have gotten over it by now.

"How long have they been studying for it?"

"Three years, give or take. They were making fair progress as of a couple of months ago," James informed. "Whatever it is they'll turn into, I reckon they're the same big, furry sort of creature." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sirius swell up with pride even more, if that was possible. The bastard didn't even bother to hide it, and he reckoned it was alright that way. He deserved to have something to be happy over, and James couldn't deny he was proud of the pups as well. Too bad Harry hadn't inherited that sort of interest in all things magical-- though he reckoned that having Voldemort on his case like he did sort of killed the will to rub his nose against the books, and learn to do things wicked beyond belief. Still-- the kid would have stood a better chance if he'd applied himself properly sooner. He'd been getting good lately, though, not to mention, his improvisations were getting better each time. "They've sort of let it go of late, though."

"Well, they _have_ been running for their lives," Sirius pointed out reasonably. "Giving every Muncher in creation the slip, and all that..." He trailed off, back to pursuing his favourite hobby these days, and James heaved a long-suffering sigh, which went largely ignored.

In truth though, he didn't want to leave. Seeing Sirius watching over his kids all besotted like, more than made up for the boring wait… And if he was honest with himself, he didn't really _mind_ waiting, either. He'd done the exact same thing, after all, for years; he'd watched over them all, as they grew older, got in and out of trouble… More often than not _in_ trouble than anything else, truth be told. He'd been there every step of the way, wishing Sirius could be there to witness what he was seeing, that he too, could watch their kids grow, like he was having the chance to. While the arrangement struck him as deeply unfair still, and he was limited to being an observer—often of deep injustice—he couldn't deny this smallest of blessings was one he cherished above all others.

And if he was even more honest, he'd not exactly wished Sirius could be with _them_, but to have him by his side.

Like now.

Now he finally _was_ here though, James found himself impatient for… something. It had been a while since he'd last felt this restless over matters linked to the living, and it was strange enough to give it more than passing notice; Sirius' arrival had changed all of that as well.

Now, looking back, it was to James as if all the years between his own death and Sirius' had merely been… Not a waste, perhaps, but certainly a period of inertia, in many aspects he had not even taken into account, but which, now they were together again, were changing, different. Evolving.

His lunatic brother had, quite without effort, upturned the proverbial applecart—and every other cart within radius as well—and brought to light matters they had hardly ever discussed anymore, questioning and challenging every rule to death, just as he had done in life.

To him, being dead was a poor excuse to stop doing what they had vowed to do in life; as he had put it once, it _wasn't_ over, not by a long shot. Those kids were still _their_ kids, and he'd be damned if they left them stranded just because they lacked a living breath, particularly now, when they needed them more than ever. Every argument was shot down, every protest was analysed, discussed, _then_ shot down… And now, a mere eight weeks (as per standards of the living) after his arrival in the Underworld, they had something they'd lacked for over fourteen years: A plan.

An utterly _impossible_ plan, which involved great deals of danger—not to their lives this time, but their souls—and which contained equal parts of madness and genius. James loved it.

Oh, but he'd _missed_ Sirius.

What had once been hindrances to James, obstacles insurmountable due to the fact he was, well, _dead_, Sirius managed to twist into an _opportunity_, of all things. Being dead didn't stop him thinking, wishing, fighting, protesting against what they all knew were humongous mistakes, mistakes that could not merely cost their boys and remaining friends their lives—but which were causing them suffering, and that was one thing Sirius was not going to allow to continue, one thing he was more intimately familiar with than most, one thing even James _knew_ was worse than death.

Because being dead was alright, really.

When had _he_ stopped fighting it, James wondered. When had he stopped trying to make things change, and taken to waiting, become a silent observer of matters that were out of his hands? When had he, rebel extraordinaire, decided to _allow_ these oh-so-weighty matters to become out-of-bounds for him? When had he taken the most readily offered, logical excuse to stop being a parent beyond boundless love and well-wishes?

James shook his head a slight, to snap out of this train of thought. It was something he would get the answer to eventually, and if there was one thing he had learned in the past decade and more, it was to wait.

Which he realised, Sirius never would. He only did it when strictly necessary.

Such as now, when he was simply… _there_. Watching, waiting, turning every new piece of information over in his head until he'd cracked the riddle, fit it in with his desired outcome, and made it work.

And he would, James was sure of it, once they all managed to crack this particular riddle. It was hard to be sceptical anywhere in Sirius' vicinity, after all; as much as his every emotion had spread to everyone around while he lived, now his determination had become a source of contagion amongst those who still cared a whit for the matters of the living world. Sirius' death, while a harbinger of despair amongst a fair number of the living, had turned out to be the opposite amongst the deceased. Voldemort had destroyed many lives, and there were many who were intent on seeing him fall, hanging onto every action of the famed Chosen One as much as the living did.

Or, as Sirius fondly called him, Bambi Jr.

His _son_. A boy who hadn't the faintest idea of how to go on surviving, never mind bringing justice to all the wronged, whose numbers were increasing exponentially.

James sighed again, burying his hands in his pockets as deep as they would go. He'd maybe hoped that the watches would be more fun with Sirius around; but he'd been at it for weeks already, and rarely even spoke. He just… stared. Thought, stared, watched. Lather, rinse, repeat. Maybe cracked a smile here, or gave them a bemused look there… and sometimes he'd comment on matters, argue with the living who could neither see nor hear him, swear at them when they were getting everything wrong. Just like James himself had done, for years.

As it were, he was more talkative tonight than other times. James suspected it was because there was a whole hell of a lot going on; they'd just left a mighty battle where the Longbottom kid had gotten himself in a boatload of trouble, Remus had nearly copped it…twice—"He's losing his touch," Sirius had commented lightly—and the Weasley Twins had popped out some wicked bits of magic—"Those two are getting better and better," Sirius had said proudly—They'd cheered their former mates on, and placed bets on who'd do what next, and it had been... Refreshing.

Just like in the old days.

It _had _been fun, and they were both some hundreds of Galleons richer for it.

They'd jumped back and forth between Sirius' childhood home and the Longbottom house, where Connor had given Harry a lesson in brawling and an earful – "Harry needs to brush up on those skills, Prongs. It's pitiably pathetic."—But that had been pretty much the last thing he'd heard from his mouth.

Not that he could blame him; Harry had never _once_ talked about him or Lily the way Connor did about his own father. Sirius took it surprisingly well, at least outwardly. James tried to get him to leave, but he'd wanted to stay. Said the pup had every right to be mad at what he couldn't understand; that he wouldn't have been much happier about it if it had happened to him.

He'd watched, bemused, as Chris filled Harry in with parts of the real story, falling deeper and deeper into thought as time wore on; everything they covered hit close to home, after all, and they had, as yet, no way of communicating with any of the kids to set their perceptions right, other than following them and listening in to their conversations. It was clear to James that Sirius had a few things to say about all of it, in particular about how they discussed Harry. But that was Sirius for you, withholding any sort of judgment until he had gotten his facts straight; he'd been misjudged and on the receiving end of prejudice for too long to make the same mistake, after all.

"Do you think they'll ever understand?" James wondered aloud, as the boys fell silent again, and resumed their reading… Or whatever it was they were doing, he'd stopped watching them for a while now.

"I don't know, Prongs. I never got around to do much of any sort of parenting, did I?" There was a definite note of regret in Sirius' voice. "You've watched them all their lives, though. You know them better. You tell me."

"Pfft, as if I'd gotten to do much more parenting than you."

"Hello, boys," a deep voice interrupted from behind them, and James turned around to see Angus standing there, half in through the wall. He silently thanked him for sparing him from having to answer Sirius' question.

"You're late," Sirius commented, without taking his eyes off Chris, who was doing the crossword, Sirius' favourite bit of the paper. On the other bed, Connor was brooding, looking exactly like Sirius used to when he was a kid.

_Funny, how that works out_. James sincerely hoped his own brooding expression didn't resemble Harry's—it was loads less than flattering.

"Aren't we all?" Angus replied dryly, making the other two snort. The shorter wizard pulled out his pipe, lighting it and leaning against the wall next to Sirius.

"Harry's having trouble sleeping," he informed. "I popped in for a bit." James nodded.

"He usually does lately," he answered. "I'm thinking he didn't take too well to the story he heard earlier."

"No, he didn't," Angus confirmed. All three fell silent, watching the boys once more.

"We were wondering if they'd ever understand," James said, breaking the silence. "All of this. Do you think they will?"

"I'm supposed to _tell_ you that, you cheeky blighters?"

"Either that, or you share the gillyweed with your old mates and in-laws."

"It's not _gillyweed_, Sirius."

"Sadly," Sirius raised his eyes to the ceiling. "The lands of the dead are sorely lacking in that regard."

"You're the one with most experience raising kids, Angus," James prompted again, impervious to Sirius' feeble attempts at a change of topic.

"I wouldn't exactly call any of them kids anymore," Angus said, sobering up. "But... Yes, I do believe they _could_ understand."

"Eventually?" Sirius sounded hopeful, despite trying not to. He'd never really been able to fool James, though, and the implications were obvious.

"Eventually," Angus confirmed. "With some luck."

"Good, because I don't need my name dragged through the mud even more than it's already been, at least not by them." Which was nothing but the truth. James didn't reckon that would change anytime soon, though. People believed Sirius was guilty of scores of crimes, and they clung to their villains as much as they did their heroes, if not more. No matter what the paper said today, it would be hard to change most people's minds.

"I ought to have told you when you came to me," Angus was saying to Sirius, drawing James' attention back to the present. "But they didn't want to see you."

"Can't blame them. I wouldn't have wanted to see me either."

"But you should have gotten the chance. We could have explained things to them, they'd have understood, and--"

"They'd have been in more danger," Sirius finished for him. "You did the right thing," he added evenly. "I _did_ agree to it. All of it. It was the only way."

"You shouldn't have," Angus countered, shaking his head. "And I shouldn't have asked that of you."

"Perhaps not," Sirius conceded, clapping the older wizard on the back encouragingly. James wondered briefly how he managed to make light of such things. "But there's a great many things we did wrong, and what's done is done and all that rot. You _do_ realise we have a lot of explaining to do, though."

"That I do. To all three of them."

A wince broke the quiet exchange, drawing all eyes to the source; it was followed by sudden movement, as Chris fairly flew to Connor's side.

"Are you alright? Connor, Connor, can you hear me?" He snapped his fingers before the other's eyes, which were fixed on a spot straight ahead, unfocused. Connor's body went rigid, arching off the bed a slight. As one, James and Sirius cringed. "Dammit, not _again_!"

James could sympathise with the boy's frustration. He'd had to witness the same sort of thing for long enough to know what was coming, but getting used to it was another matter altogether. He ought to go check on Harry…

There was a dull _thud_ outside, and Angus poked his head out of the wall.

"Your kid just nearly toppled off the stairs," he informed, and James hurried to Harry's side, who was on the third floor landing, clutching the banister for all he was worth.

It didn't last long, thankfully, though to James it felt eternal. It always did.

He stayed with Harry until he raffled himself up, resuming his rather unsteady walk to the kitchens.

"Is it like this every time?" Sirius asked Angus, as James stepped into the room again. The pup had also stopped pitching a spaz; he was being made to drink some water, but it also looked like it would come right back out before long.

"Yes, lad."

"Any chances of that stopping?"

"Not that I know of. Perhaps with proper management it could be more bearable, but I doubt things will get better anytime soon."

"Did you ever get used to it? Those, er…" He gestured vaguely at Connor. "… spaz attack… _things_?"

"Never, Padfoot. Every time it's like the first."

"So it isn't just me, then. Good." Sirius let out a slow breath. For all he was trying for nonchalance, it was getting to him. It got to them all, and tough James was the one with most experience watching the living—"Professional voyeurism," Sirius had said it was—he was feeling much the same as the other two: impotent to help, and worried about what else was in store for the kids.

A silence fell amongst them, pensive and tense. There was no need to ask; all three wizards were wondering the same thing—what would have been different, were they still alive, with the boys.

"You'd have made a great father, Padfoot."

"You'd have made a wicked father too, Prongs," Sirius answered after a moment, cracking a grin right after. He did that a lot lately as well. "Particularly taking them out on stag nights."

"And you'd have been unbeatable teaching them to hound the girls."

"Before you two start kissing each other's arses again," Angus interrupted, clearing his throat, "We should try Harry." He gave his grandkids a parting look, leading the way out of the room.

"It's called _complimenting_," Sirius argued, "you're just jealous because we're not doing it for you." But he too cast his kids a last glance, before following out through the wall.

"We should try the mirror again," he told the other two, once they were in the corridor. "Who knows, it might work this time." He'd been very insistent on that, but up until now their results had equalled zero. Sirius was convinced it would work, though, and no amount of protesting, or the evidence of fifteen years' worth of failed attempts at communicating with the living were enough to dissuade him from his plan, which was, admittedly, much different from anything they'd tried before. But then, he hadn't died a normal death, and how many souls got to keep everything they'd died with—body and clothing and assorted items included?

"It won't work if he doesn't want it to—and right now…"

"He does, but doesn't really. I _know_." Sirius said. "Can't hurt to try again, how _else_ are we going to get it done?"

"They could go to the Department of Mysteries… We could try the resident Unspeakables." James couldn't hide his misgivings on the matter, though he _was_ trying to sound encouraging.

"Yeah, no problem," Sirius replied, scoffing. "Let me check the temperature in Hell first."

"I'm not getting you out of there again," James warned him. And this time, he _did_ mean it.

"As I remember it, you were the one who wanted to go ice skating…"

"Yeah, but did you have to go to that particular lake?"

"Where's the fun otherwise? Did Voldemort kill your sense of adventure too?"

"No," James said, snorting. As if! "He merely destroyed my mortal shell." He gestured for the other two to follow him downstairs, which was where Harry had gone. They found him at the very same spot James had left him at.

"Smashing sense of interior decoration," Angus commented, hands clasped behind his back as he looked around the dinghy old house along the way, even as the tell-tale sounds of the Order returning from the Longbottoms' were heard.

"No kidding," Sirius agreed, watching Harry get to his feet, to greet the Order, no doubt. "Even after all these years, the place has retained its vile essence without any significant change."

"Your mum really knew how to make this environment child-friendly," James said, suppressing a shudder. Even after all the cleaning, the house still had the overall feel of a morgue, and the overall look of a muggle horror flick set. And he _was_ playing it down. Sirius' mum's screeching certainly didn't help make the feeling fade.

"He's right, kid. How did you manage to cope in here?" Angus asked over the din, looking at the mounted elf heads on the landing they were crossing. Sirius shrugged one shoulder, hands in his pockets as he descended the stairs. The answer was, perhaps, obvious.

"I didn't."

.

* * *

"It was a slaughterhouse." Rasmus stood, covered in dust and something very sticky, before Voldemort's chair, which was raised upon a dais; it added to the foreboding feeling, to the commanding presence towering over them all. It was, perhaps, why everyone else was kneeling, prostrated before the Dark Lord, already beseeching his—entirely nonexistent—mercy, before he had even heard the facts.

_Cowards. _

Or perhaps, they were being _clever_, something they could not, under any other circumstances, claim to count amongst their traits.

_Survival instinct, then._

Whichever the cause for all this groveling, Rasmus was not focused on it. He had always had a problem with submission; his bad knee, and also his excellent upbringing and lineage were to fault for that.

The Death Eaters who had managed to escape the ambush staged by the Order of the Phoenix—mostly thanks to Rasmus' timely blasting apart of the half of the dining room he had been attached to, his undergarments somehow glued to his face—numbered a round dozen. Few others were present, all members of the Innermost Circle, all of them groveling just like the rest.

It was easy to tell the Death Eaters who had been in battle from those who had not; all were injured, to a greater or lesser extent, and a vast majority of them sported bits of fabric, ranging from cotton to lace and silk, or else red-raw patches on their faces, sustained whilst trying to rip their underthings from their visages.

"Why am I not surprised?" Voldemort's voice was a harsh hiss, chilling everyone present to the core. He surveyed them coldly, the anger emanating from him so tangible Rasmus fancied he could _taste_ it. It was fascinating, how so powerful a wizard could indulge in so base a feeling. Perhaps, were he to keep his emotions in check, he could be invincible; as it were, Rasmus could only speculate what the Heir of Slytherin, one of the Nine, could achieve despite this greatest of flaws.

But that was for later—pastimes ought to be set aside when facing potential death, after all. Rasmus met the Dark Lord's eyes levelly, without bothering to affect fear or unease. That was for all those other, lesser sorts. Presently, his only focus was aimed at delivering his report, at coming up with another plan to get the Longbottoms, and then return to his manor for a freshly-made dinner.

And some red wine as well, 1801 had indeed been a good year for chianti. He would have to visit the Tuscany again soon…

Others could deal with His Royal Darkness and his temper tantrums.

"What happened, Rasmus?"

"We arrived with time to spare, and met no hindrance whatsoever," he began with his report. "The Longbottoms arrived from their weekly trip to St. Mungo's a little later than expected, but they did not suspect anything, My Lord," he said. "They gave fair battle, but were ultimately no match for our numbers. We had the woman cornered when the boy escaped. The Order arrived whilst Dolohov was leading the hunt for the boy."

"Someone warned them," Voldemort hissed furiously. "That _Potter_ brat." He spat the name out as though it were poison. Rasmus nodded his agreement.

"That, my Lord, would certainly explain matters."

"Out! GET _OUT_!" Voldemort erupted suddenly, rising from his chair. In the time it took Rasmus to bow his head in parting and turn on his heel, the chamber was empty, save for a couple of stragglers, who were limping to the doors for all they were worth.

Which was not much, as might be surmised.

"Stay, Rasmus." For all that he had expected the invitation—order, rather—to stay, it still managed to convey the threat that lay behind it.

"If you so wish, my Lord."

"Potter warned them," Voldemort stated, dropping his foreboding manner and pacing up and down the empty chamber, his every step echoing through the room, worry evident in his every feature. "This cannot go on, I need that new body as soon as may be contrived, otherwise our every move will be foreseen by him, passed on to those Muggle-loving scum."

Rasmus thought keeping his emotions under control would help greatly, but he was wise enough to limit himself to nodding.

"I am doing my utmost to find the boy in question, my Lord."

"He will be hidden by now," Voldemort muttered, shaking his head. "Did you find any sign of him at the Longbottoms'?"

"No, my Lord."

"How do you suggest we find him, then?"

"I do not suggest we do that," Rasmus countered. "Not unless he comes into the open and gives us a chance to take him."

"We both know that's nearly impossible, especially if he's reached Dumbledore. He'll have him at that school, and I am not ready yet to attack it."

"He shall come to us," Rasmus decided. "The McAlpins' cousin, the girl—I believe I shall take her with me tonight. I am certain to find a way to bend her to your will, she shall bring the boys to us."

"You shall be handsomely rewarded," Voldemort said, visibly pleased with Rasmus' plan.

"As long as you give me the spare, I shall be content." Though he had already been offered, Rasmus had to make sure his payment would still be the same. Thus were the problems one faced when doing business with someone so volatile; he could change his mind at any given moment.

"He is yours," Voldemort confirmed, clapping his hands together.

A second later, the doors opened, revealing Crabbe.

"My Lord?" he asked, with a clumsy bow.

"Bring Bellatrix and Severus to me."

They were brought in—or in Bellatrix' case, dragged in—with an impressive celerity. Nobody was willing to risk the Dark Lord's wrath, or indeed test his patience. Little did Bellatrix' health matter in the face of the Darl Lord's anger: In such a setting, Rasmus reckoned that being known for bipolarity _did _have its uses.

Voldemort did short work of handing out his orders. Snape was to supervise the healing of those Death Eaters injured immediately, and to work under Rasmus' direction for the special project they had discussed. An intelligent move, seeing as they still had to complete the collection, and time was beginning to press.

Whereas Bellatrix was merely ordered to hand the girl over. To judge by her reaction, one would have thought Voldemort had asked her to kindly remove her spleen with a spoon.

"She's my _ward_, my Lord," she wailed, and there was no telling whether it was because of the fall out of the second floor in the Longbottoms' house, or because of the loss of her toy. Ward. "I never had any children of my own, and—"

And Rasmus was certain she was not precisely being a mother to the girl. The Dementor Pit was hardly a place fit to raise any child, not Muggle, not belonging to two ancient pureblood families. For all they preached about pureblood supremacy, the Death Eaters often forgot how to treat their equals as, well, equals.

"The child shall go to Rasmus," Voldemort said, in a final tone, never one for negotiations. "You have plenty of others to play with. Dare you disobey me?"

"My Lord—I would _never_." This time it was her who seemed outraged. Everyone had a button to be pushed.

"Then do as I say. Have Severus fix you up, there is plenty of work for you to do."

.

* * *

A series of cracks and gunshot-like bangs broke the silence in number 12, Grimmauld Place, setting the former owner's portrait off and bringing an end to the tense silence and complete immobility prevalent in the old house up until that moment.

Harry had been sitting on the third floor landing, waiting for the Order to return while staying well out of sight; he didn't want to talk to anyone, or see anyone, not after that vision he'd had earlier, or indeed everything that had happened in the past handful of hours.

Voldemort had been talking to the same wizard he liked seeing so much, and there had been talk about getting a boy—not him for once—and Snape had been tasked with healing a bunch of bashed-up Death Eaters. Harry sensed there was more to it than that, and whoever the girl they were talking about was, he didn't reckon anything they were planning with her was remotely good.

He'd have to go to Dumbledore about it; nobody else would believe him.

Provided the old coot ever showed up.

Thinking was getting him nowhere, speculation was a lonely affair, one he'd usually pursued with his best friends, whom he had heard not a word from since he'd left the Dursleys' to go rescue Dudley, and he felt dizzy and ill, random disconnected memories welling up without apparent reason or prompt. He had reason to believe that it was the link between him and Connor asserting itself, and wondered absently what, if anything, he could do about it.

Nothing came to mind.

However, when he finally heard the Order returning, he all but leapt to his feet, pushing the thoughts he had so far entertained aside, to start making his way to the doors.

Confused voices could be heard, and there was a great deal of clatters and thuds amidst the screeching of the portrait. He headed downstairs as fast as he could, even as Mrs. Weasley emerged from the kitchen, hurrying to meet them as well.

"SCUM! HALF-BREEDS! BEGONE FROM THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!" Mrs. Black thundered. It was so loud the floor was vibrating.

"Someone shut that hag up!"

As Harry came closer, he could make out some more of what was being said, but it was a veritable confusion, everyone speaking over each other, bumping into one another as more wizards and witches returned, some quite battered, from the Longbottoms'. The corridor was crowded as ever, and people kept arriving, adding to the racket.

"Can you walk?" Harry heard Bill ask Hestia, whose face he couldn't see. She shook her head, even as Moody stumbled, almost bowling one of the Twins over.

"Weasley, get out of the—"

"FILTH! MUCK! BE DAMNED FOR ALL ETERNITY! YOU DESERVE TO DIE FOR BESMIRCHING MY HALLOWED HALLS WITH YOUR UNWORTHINESS!"

"Blimey, she's _loud_."

"How many fingers can you see, Hestia?"

"My God! Are you alright, George?"

"MOLLY, CALL HEALER TONKS," Moody bellowed, to make himself heard over the racket. "AND SOMEONE _PLEASE_ SHUT THAT BLOODY HAG UP!"

"Let me through," Harry muttered, pushing his way towards the portrait. In between trying hard not to stare at the state of the Order members returning, and making his way through the narrow corridor to where the portrait was while everyone else was pushing the other way, it took longer than he thought.

"Mum, _honestly_—it's just a scratch," George was saying, freeing himself from Mrs. Weasley's grip. "It's Hestia who needs you, go on."

"STAINS OF DISHONOUR! SONS OF FILTH, DRAGGING MUGGLE SCUM INTO _MY HOUSE_!"

"SHUT UP!" Harry bellowed, wrenching the flapping curtains shut in Mrs. Black's face. It worked, just like it always did of late, and for one moment, the babble subsided, except for a _crash_ right behind him.

"Cor. He's even _louder_," Fred stated, jabbing a thumb at Harry. "Are you alright, Tonks?"

"Sorry—didn't see that troll leg," Tonks said from the floor, dragging herself up to a stand. "Why did we never bin it, anyway? All it ever does is trip me up."

"Sirius liked it," Remus replied through gritted teeth, limping much like Mad-Eye usually did. "But I reckon he found how you always trip over it entertaining…" Harry wasn't listening, though, having just spotted Neville, who was supporting his grandmother.

Harry hurried to Neville's side; he was looking quite in need of support as well.

"Are you alright?"

Neville nodded once, but didn't say a word.

"_Alright_?" Mad-Eye echoed, clapping Neville genially on the back and nearly making him topple over. Out of all of them, he was easily the one in the best mood, now Mrs. Black had shut her trap—though he was by no means unhurt.

"It's a right miracle he's alive—_amazing_, what he did," he told Harry proudly. "Blasted Bellatrix right out of the house, didn't he. I bet she didn't see _that_ coming." Harry's stomach had knotted itself together as Bellatrix was mentioned, but it turned into amazement the next moment. He was willing to bet _nobody_ had seen that coming.

"Really?" he asked. Neville smiled tightly but didn't answer, eyes fixed on the floor ahead. Now he could see them properly, his gran looked quite ready to pass out; her eyes were unfocused, her robes torn and ripped, and she had lost her trademark vulture hat, which somehow made her look smaller and more frail than Harry could remember. He didn't focus on that, though, eyes drawn to her off-grey, matted hair, which was caked in some dark, sticky substance he suspected, was blood, and she was dragging one foot in front of the other with great difficulty.

"We should get her upstairs," Harry suggested, taking her other arm and putting it over his shoulders.

"Right you are, Harry. Move aside now, I'll take it from here, dear," Mrs. Weasley took Mrs. Longbottom's arm from him, casting a levitation charm on her. "Augusta, help is on the way," she said to the woman, hurrying upstairs with her, and Neville followed wordlessly. Hestia was being taken upstairs as well, looking cross-eyed and lost, and everyone else was filing downstairs. He could hear Kingsley offering Firewhiskey around, and McGonagall's voice joined the rest moments later, only she was handing out bandages and healing potions, not booze.

Harry remained at the foot of the stairs for a few moments, looking up until he saw Neville disappear in the room right off the first floor landing, which was slowly becoming a sick bay of sorts. Chris passed Hestia on his way down, his expression rather pinched. Not a word was exchanged between the two boys, but their eyes met for a moment, and the one look sufficed to convey an entire message to Harry; that vision earlier had taken its toll, and he hadn't even tried to make it stop. He averted his eyes. He couldn't do _anything_ when it happened; he'd never been able to. How _could_ it be done, at that? He was hopeless at Occlumency.

If anything, it had made matters all the worse.

They descended the last flight of stairs together, entering the kitchen in silence, where everything was still a confused, yet unusually cheerful, chaos.

The large, commonly gloomy room was brightly lit, and already littered with whatever debris the Order had trailed in: Bits of rubble, wood, even glass crunched under Harry's every step, dust flying up as someone shook their heads or patted their robes. But that was hardly the worst of it; Harry could see them now, some sporting cuts, bruises, and in some parts, the floor was covered in droplets of blood.

And yet, the overall mood reigning in the place was positively cheerful, which made the shock of the sight lessen considerably. They were talking animatedly, exchanging their views, or telling those who hadn't been in the battle what had happened: McGonagall had just arrived, and Harry saw Madam Pomfrey handing out potions left and right, even as Healer Tonks swept out of the fireplace in a flash of green and hurried upstairs. He briefly wondered how she managed, looking after them here in her spare time, while still working full-time at St. Mungo's, but soon his attention was drawn to the Weasley Twins, George in particular, who was being tended to by Bill, who was, in turn, squinting at the cut on the side of his head through a badly swollen eye. George, though, was in an excellent mood.

"Bill, you should have seen it—it was _GENIUS_!"

"Yeah, Bellatrix was towering over him, never saw it coming—"

"He cast this hurling hex, _right after_ she had him with the Cruciatus—"

"Never seen anything like it—"

"Bloody amazing—"

"And then we charmed that vulture, you know, the one Neville's gran always wore on that old hat—"

"Too bad you were out of it, Bill."

"Yeah, that's a crying shame. You'd have laughed your arse off."

"We made it fly, right—"

"And Fred made it caw and everything. The Death Eaters probably thought it was You-Know-Who's mum or something, they were _running_ for it. Sort of like this," George added, pulling a comical face and pretending to run from his older brother. Next to him, Fred, who looked like he'd rolled in ashes or something, gave a loud guffaw.

"Will you sit still?" Bill asked, in amused exasperation. "It's deep, and if it gets infected…"

"Mum will have your head?" Fred suggested innocently, batting his eyelashes at Bill.

"Bastard nearly sliced my ear clean off," George said with a grimace, pouring himself some a handsome refill of Firewhiskey. "Be glad you're not cleaning a gaping hole—now _that_ would have ruined my perfect little face. And made me almost a saint."

"At least you weren't nearly blasted through a bloody _wall_, your holeyness," Fred threw in, snatching the glass from George's hand and downing it in one go. "You'll have to work hard to top _that_." He too, was all grins, even though several bright lines of blood were trickling down his scalp. "Those Death Eaters seem to have it out for us."

"I wonder why," George mused, and both arranged their faces into identical expressions of innocent bewilderment. Harry couldn't help snickering, but it died moments later; Kingsley was watching him, in an assessing, calculating manner that made him uneasy, and when Harry met his eyes he turned away, to talk to McGonagall in a low voice.

Harry decided maybe it was time to squeeze into a corner to watch the rest of the goings-on from, and went to sit at the table, trying to stay out of the way of everyone else. Tonks was bandaging Remus' side, blowing off his protests that she could get infected with his blood; Mad-Eye was nursing his hip-flask, talking animatedly to Diggle and gesticulating in a way that would have made anyone think he'd throttle the tiny wizard at any moment; as it were, he was only in a genial mood.

A few feet away, Bill finished dressing George's face by tapping his wand against the wound to make a bandage appear, and moved on to check on Fred with a grim, "It'll leave a scar, so your perfect little visage won't be perfect anymore."

George's face fell; it was very comical to watch, or would be, if the situation hadn't been so grave.

"They'll _tell us apart_?" the twins gasped in unison, and this time their shock was genuine. Bill chuckled, getting started on cleaning Fred up.

"Sorry, boys. I can't make it vanish."

"That's terrible—"

"Gruesome—"

"Awful. Why aren't you a Healer, Bill?"

"Didn't they teach you _anything_ in curse-breaking school?"

"Terrible."

"You've said that one already."

"I'm in shock, shut your gob."

Everywhere he turned; it was more or less the same: the wizards and witches were nursing their wounds, none of which thankfully looked life-threatening, while discussing the happenings at the Longbottoms' animatedly. From what he heard, Harry was able to gather that they'd all split up upon arrival, taking on over twenty Death Eaters, who were ransacking the house; that Fred and George had put a Sticky Bomb in the dining room, where they'd stockpiled the Death Eaters that were captured, but most got away before the Aurors arrived, having blasted their way out.

Neville had turned into the hero of the day, though. Everyone was talking about how he'd hurled Bellatrix out a second-storey window, mere seconds after being hit with a Cruciatus Curse. Harry was proud of his friend, as impressed as everyone else who'd known him as the timid, chubby little boy he'd been most of his life, and he was very glad indeed he and his gran had made it out alive.

Mrs. Weasley presently returned at a bustle, announcing that Neville and his grandmother were resting, and that Hestia was being tended to by Healer Tonks. She then proceeded to checking her sons over and fussing over them for a bit, before moving on to fussing over everyone else.

She swept through the kitchen time and again, handing out ointments here, helping with the bandaging there; cleaning robes, bloodstains, mud, rubble, and whatever else was littering her domains, until everyone had been looked after. Just watching her was enough to make anyone dizzy; Mad-Eye was following her every movement with his magical eye, and Harry could see it fairly spinning in its socket.

She finally declared herself satisfied with everyone's state, and went on to announcing she'd prepared a hearty dinner, and Harry helped her set the table, which had to be enlarged to seat everyone. Kingsley and Tonks left, however, saying they had plenty of paperwork to catch up on, but nobody else was willing to miss one of Mrs. Weasley's excellent meals.

"You might want to call your brother down, dear," Harry heard her tell Chris as he passed them on his way to get more cutlery.

"He's not feeling well, Mrs. Weasley," Chris answered, elaborating after receiving a sharp, questioning look from not only Mrs. Weasley, but also several of the wizards and witches nearest to them. "Upset stomach."

"I'll make him something for that, then," she told him in return. "You go sit; I'll take it upstairs in a minute."

"You don't need to bother--" Chris started, but Mrs. Weasley just clucked at him, ushering him to a seat. Harry followed suit, picking a spot as far removed from him as he could manage to find.

In the end, he squeezed into a seat between Bill and Mad-Eye, and soon the conversation absorbed his entire focus once more.

Mad-Eye had taken on a Death Eater named Rasmus, who also figured prominently in the discussion. Harry hadn't thought he'd ever hear the Order speak of anyone with more loathing—and even apprehension—than they did Bellatrix and the Lestranges. Apparently, he was the one who'd led the Death Eaters to the Longbottoms'. The Twins had stuck him in the dining room after Mad-Eye kicked him down the stairs, but he had blasted half the house apart and gotten away, taking most of the captured Death Eaters with him. Fred and George didn't seem to mind overmuch.

"They'll all have trouble getting their knickers off their faces," they stated happily. "Every new pair they wear—it'll stick itself to their faces again… For days."

The list of captured Death Eaters though, was not something to ignore, either; Dolohov was easily the most prominent catch, which included men named Burdock, Babbage, Matthews, and one Patricia Isla Staker, whose name had the Twins in stitches forever, for some reason.

"Rasmus Thanatovich is a monster," Bill explained sometime later, when the excitement had subsided and most of the Order members had retired to bed, or were having second and third helpings of pudding. In spite the thick purple paste covering half his face, Harry could understand quite clearly that it wasn't an understatement by his expression alone. "He was around in the First War, then vanished after You-Know-Who went down. He was You-Know-Who's top… hit-wizard, I suppose would be a proper term for him."

"Try murderer," Mad-Eye grunted. "Slippery as an eel, that one. Nobody could ever even accuse him of a single crime, and in Russia, where he lives; he's got the cleanest, most respectable record in creation."

"Had it out for James and Sirius, back in the day," Remus threw in. He'd been rather quiet up until now. "And many others, besides… He wants to be the best duellist in history, so he'll fight anyone who he thinks might be a fair contender—"

"He never beat James and Sirius, though," Mad-Eye said, and there was a distinct tone of pride in his voice. "There's very few who managed to survive him, but they were his special project of sorts." Harry hadn't known that. Neither had Chris, apparently. He was hanging on to every word as much as Harry was.

"It's all a game for him," Bill confirmed grimly. "A hobby, like."

"_Collecting_ _batteries_ is a hobby," Molly corrected, not without a shudder. "Killing people _isn't_." Bill snorted without humour.

"Tell _him_ that."

"But he's been spotted now," Fred chimed up. "That's enough to get him classified as a Death Eater, isn't it?"

Mad-Eye shrugged, "He should be put away. As long as we don't have him, his face can be plastered all over the country for all he cares. It won't make him so much as lie low."

"Thanatovich isn't a Death Eater, though," Diggle informed, past a mouthful of pie. "He's You-Know-Who's ally of sorts. He's joined him just to get a chance to duel people. Twisted, if you ask me."

That was a way of putting it, Harry reckoned, picking at his pudding. He remembered the wizard, from the description the Order gave him; he'd been in the play park when Dudley got grabbed, and in the McAlpin estate, fighting Chris and Connor's grandfather…

The fireplace suddenly flared into life, bright green announcing a new arrival, and bringing an end to the conversation. Everybody drew their wands, aiming them at the kitchen—

And out toppled Charlie, looking thinner and paler than Harry ever remembered seeing him. He was worn out, no mistake…

And also, bringing a cage with him.

"Hedwig!" Harry exclaimed, rushing forward to take her. "Cheers, Charlie."

"Hello," Charlie greeted him tiredly. "I also got you these." He handed him three fat letters, from Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, respectively. "I'll take your replies back with me when I go back—What in the name of Merlin's Y-fronts happened to _you_?" He'd spotted the rest, noticed the state they were in, and instantly was concerned.

"A hello before the interrogations would be proper, you know," George quipped, grinning widely at him.

"Yeah," said Fred, "It's not all business, is it?" But he too, ended up getting to his feet and going to greet his brother properly.

The explanations started over again, and Harry shuffled to the back of the room, turning the letters over in his hands, apprehensive to open them; doing so meant facing what had happened in the past few weeks, it meant finding out what his friends had been through in the meantime, it meant writing a report of all he'd been up to—and it was enough to fill a fair-sized book.

He caught Mrs. Weasley's eye for a second, and his heart fell further—it was obvious to him, that she didn't approve of the exchange of letters. What was the matter there?

He was afraid to find out.

.

* * *

The following morning dawned grey and rainy, not unbefitting Harry's mood. He'd gotten little rest that night as well, mind buzzing with hundreds of questions, even more ponderings as to what to do next, and figuring out what his own current situation was-- by far, the hardest to achieve-- and when he became too frustrated to stay in bed and shuffled himself to the kitchen, he found the place was in a flurry of activity again. People in various states of wakefulness, some still sporting the remnants of last night's healing binge, were popping in and out, some grabbing toast and marmalade, others poring over maps, others still just… popping in and out at random —the Weasley Twins, of course-- shouting "BOO!" at whoever they apparated behind, which in turn had Mrs. Weasley on a very frustrated hunt, wielding a spatula like a sword and looking left and right to catch them at it.

Chris and Connor didn't look like they'd gotten an awful lot of rest, either; both were seated at the table, half-eaten breakfast before them as they looked at this morning's Daily Prophet, sleepy and-- in Connor's case-- ill-tempered. Harry was looking for a place to sit that was as far removed from them as possible, but Mrs. Weasley ushered him to a seat right across from them without much ceremony. He grunted a greeting to everyone at large, shaking his head at Mrs. Weasley's offer of eggs and bacon. Not that it did any good; she served him a plate anyway.

He picked at his breakfast listlessly, watching the goings-on around him without much interest. The Weasley Twins made him jump a few times, but Mrs. Weasley got them on the third go round, which made them desist-- Harry found it was a small, yet welcome, blessing; all the shouting was making him get a headache, which would not go away so easily-- the Order were discussing timings, apparently they wanted to slowly infiltrate Diagon Alley, so as not to rouse suspicion; the only one who had access to an Invisibility Cloak was Mad-Eye, and his spare one had been confiscated by the Ministry the previous year, so they had to be more careful than usual.

Harry tuned the discussion--which centred around whether or not they should polyjuice the McAlpin Twins into other people for their visit to Gringotts-- out and tried to mind his own business, which at the moment consisted of finishing his breakfast without it coming right back out again, but he found it hard; Chris placed the newspaper on the table, and Harry couldn't help but look at it.

The headline had to do with McFusty's funeral, and a picture of a familiar-looking couple with a girl dominated the upper half of the first page. Squinting at it, he recognised the woman who had nearly managed to hex Voldemort-- the one Snape had killed. Anger welled up; all these days, and the Order hadn't so much as breached the subject. All these days and Dumbledore hadn't so much as shown the tip of his ruddy crooked nose around here-- not to him, anyway.

He managed to make out the date of the funeral and service, August 1st. Chris and Connor were looking mournfully at the paper, and it was clear to Harry why. The witch waving at the camera with a bright smile had been their aunt, Nina... And the girl's name was... Holly. And Rob, the handsome wizard on the picture had been a close friend of Charlie's... Who was the only one who'd go to the funeral at all.

Harry felt immensely sorry for the twins now. Seeing them angry at everything all the time, and not having been able to understand much about them until last night, he had overlooked the fact that, well, they had lost their family. Everyone, and he didn't need to feel that crawling under his skin-- identified as alien and belonging to them rather than him-- to understand perfectly how they felt.

He at least had known the Order beforehand, had never been really, truly alone...

"I'm sorry," he said to them, words spilling out of his mouth though he hadn't intended to say anything at all-- not unless he was addressed first, at any rate-- but they were out... And they did not fall on deaf ears.

Connor and Chris looked up as one, and mumbled identical, quiet replies of, "Thanks," as one as well. Connor's grey eyes lingered on him a bit longer however, while Chris returned his own to the paper-- and it wasn't in the angry, calculating way he had expected from Connor, either-- In truth, Harry didn't quite know what to expect from him, even if every feeling he had coursed through him at all times. He was simply unpredictable... Just like Sirius had been.

"We're not even allowed to go to the funeral," he muttered hollowly, picking at his meal in much the same manner Harry was. "Too dangerous, they say."

Harry nodded his understanding, throat tightening, even as Chris heaved a sigh.

"Finish up, dears, we're leaving in a minute," Mrs. Weasley said, in a kind, over-bright tone that only seemed to depress them all the more.

"Yeah," Connor mumbled, shoulders sagging in resignation. They resumed their meal in silence, mechanically shovelling food into their mouths, not sparing anyone a glance. Harry gestured at Chris for the paper, which was pushed at him without a word.

Aside from the news of the McFusty funeral, which Harry only skimmed, the rest of the paper held equally grim notices; Dementors breeding, going rampant in random villages and every major city; the attack on the Longbottoms-- who, he noted, had been classified as missing as well, even though both were safe; a shortage in potions ingredients; debate of setting up a curfew... None of it was remotely encouraging.

The disappearances of fourteen witches and wizards, all Muggle-born, were causing uproar amidst the wizarding population. The Aurors had, as yet, only established it had been Death Eater work, and they even had names to provide-- the usual set of names that usually followed any large-scale attack-- but nothing else; no reasons for the abductions, no suggestion as to how to prevent any more from happening.

The wizarding world was upside-down, and many blamed Fudge. Sirius' inquiry was rather clearly leaning towards proving his innocence-- and, at the same time, adding to Fudge's murky businesses over the years, which were going to be evaluated next, in response to demands placed by the general public. Harry sincerely hoped he'd get sacked.

A disruption in the form of a familiar clunking sound was soon heard; it came coupled with an equally familiar harsh voice, which sounded confident of all things.

"Oh, we've got every corner covered," Mad-Eye sounded confident for once. "No Death Eater will be able to get to Diagon or Knockturn Alley undetected. And that's all we need to get them out in a blinking... I'll set up the portkeys back myself."

It was the next sound which captured all three boys' attention, however.

"Do you believe that planting Diagon Alley with the Order will suffice for their protection?" Harry could've recognised the lazy, mocking drawl in his sleep. Every bit as loathsome as he remembered, Snape was walking into the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back, sneer firmly in place, black eyes scanning the room keenly-- until they fixed themselves on Harry, and the next moment, on Chris and Connor.

The reaction was immediate; Harry couldn't help it, and even if he had, he wouldn't have tried to curb the sudden onset of white-hot, furious anger that welled up within him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" He spat the words out, getting to his feet as if there had been a spring underneath him. His wand was in his hand, aimed straight between Snape's eyes even as twin snarls were heard behind him; as one, the McAlpin Twins had done much the same Harry had-- all three wands were pointed at the Potions Master, who froze in his tracks, hardly having crossed the door.

"Now, boys, let's settle down," Mrs. Weasley admonished into the heavy silence that now pervaded the kitchen, sounding startled and alarmed--and with good reason, too.

She was also, predictably, ignored

"Settle down yourself," Connor muttered, even as Snape reached for his own wand. Mad-Eye stood frozen next to him, his magical eye swivelling madly around its socket.

"_You killed her_," Harry hissed, his burning anger giving his every word an icy tone the likes of which had never been heard from his mouth. "And still they let you walk."

"Interesting as this little display of yours is, Potter," Snape spat back, his own voice dripping with a failed attempt at sarcasm that was too dipped in hatred to be confused for anything else, "I have neither the time nor the patience for it. Put your wand away before you take someone's eye out."

"I _saw you_, you _bastard_." Harry's voice was ice as he spat it out; stepping forward upon deciding throttling Snape would be a far better idea than bothering with a hex.

"What is the matter here?" A third voice added itself to the mix, one that made even Harry freeze mid-movement. All eyes turned to the newcomer, whose identity, for those unfamiliar with the voice, was further indicated by the robes covered in little moons and stars, the lively blue eyes, the half-moon spectacles...

"He," Harry spat, "shouldn't be here."

"Damn right," Connor and Chris concurred at a chorus.

"Put your wands down, lads," Dumbledore said, with a placating gesture. "Severus is here as my guest-- He has come to give us information on the Dark Side's doings."

"Bollocks," Connor snapped, taking the words right out of Harry's mouth. Everyone else was silent, watching the exchange like people looking at a train wreck.

"Put them down," Mad-Eye said after a breath's space, when it became evident Dumbledore was being ignored by them all. "Now." It was rather forceful, but at length, Harry lowered his wand a fraction, and the twins followed suit.

"Severus is a double agent," Dumbledore explained to the McAlpin twins. Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes. "He is a Death Eater only in appearance..."

"Tell that to their aunt," Harry snarled. "I saw what happened-- I _saw_ it. If he were on our side, he _wouldn't have saved Voldemort's life_!" A wave of hisses and flinches swept across the kitchen. Dumbledore gave Harry a disappointed look; Snape on the other hand, looked sickeningly vindicated. Harry's hand clenched around his wand.

"That is quite _enough_, Harry," Dumbledore said, a sort of finality in his tone that brooked no space for arguments-- and held a warning that couldn't be overlooked. Even the twins were startled by it-- but Harry reckoned it was because they were unused to Dumbledore. When he was younger, he was cowed by this very display as well, after all. "I shall not allow such accusations in my presence. As I said," Dumbledore added, stepping into the kitchen to pour himself some tea, "Severus is here to hand in his report on the Dark Side's doings, which closely concern the three of you-- and he is not to be threatened here. He enjoys my full confidence and trust."

Harry glared at Dumbledore, which the latter ignored-- but Snape strolled into the kitchen, all but basking in the glowering looks sent his way.

"You'll pay for it," Harry snarled as Snape approached, ready to go past him to join the Headmaster.

"Shall I, now?" Snape drawled, then looked over his shoulder, affecting a show of relief. "Oh, good. I thought there was a curtain there."

Harry had to be bodily hauled out of the kitchen, to keep him from tearing Snape's head off right where he stood.

.

* * *

The clock on the dusty mantelpiece in Harry's room struck ten o'clock, at least that's what he could make out from the cracked face. The McAlpin Twins had left for Diagon Alley a handful of minutes earlier, the last to go of every last member of the Order who could be spared.

Dumbledore had also left, along with Snape-- not without giving Harry a lengthy speech about the need for him to get a guardian. As if anyone could ever replace Sirius. As if anyone could ever so much as fancy getting close. The mere suggestion was insulting.

Not that Harry gave a right damn about it; he had told Dumbledore of the visions he was having, what he'd seen Snape do, what he feared would happen-- and he'd gone ignored. Again. It was the reason for his present, bitter state; the Order's mistrust he could handle-- it's not like they understood-- but _Dumbledore's_? He'd hoped the wizard would act upon Harry's information, or at least help.

All he got was a condescending, "Practice your Occlumency. We'll talk about this later. Think about whom you'd like as a guardian." And then he'd heard the Order explaining the plan to keep Diagon Alley safe to the last detail to that smarmy, greasy, snivelling _git_.

He throttled his pillow, but it didn't do much by way of providing any help. It wasn't even good for venting.

The house was plunged in a stuffy sort of silence again; Neville and his grandmother were resting, and not to be disturbed, and Charlie was in the kitchen, having stayed behind to 'look after' Harry. He had the distinct impression the only thing Charlie was up to looking after was the bottle of Old Ogden's double-cask he'd brought along from Romania. And brooding. It was becoming a favourite pastime of most people Harry had dealt with of late.

Starting with himself.

Harry stared at the cracked, off-white ceiling until his eyes began to sting, adding to his frustrations. Sulking wasn't very productive, and turning the Two-Way Mirror over in his hands only made matters all the worse. Indulging in it wasn't something he could help, much less now, when he needed guidance and support more than ever.

Sirius would've believed him. He'd have listened, at the very least, have given him advice... He'd have been wild to meet his kids too. He'd have figured out how to help them... Everything would have been different.

But it wasn't.

And Harry'd never felt so dejected as he did now.

Thinking of the only two people who would surely stand by him, though, only made him turn from the mirror in his hands at the letters lying unopened on his bedside table. He couldn't help wondering-- would Ron and Hermione stand by him if they found out what was happening? Would they trust him as they had before? They'd both gotten badly hurt at the Department of Mysteries, and... Did they deserve to carry on with this, helping him do whatever it is he had to do? Did they deserve to die for it, like so many others had?

No, no they didn't.

Hedwig fluttered to the headboard of his bed, crooning at him. She'd not been here 24 hours, and she was already feeling cooped up; even his ruddy _pet owl_ had to suffer just by being with him... And what could he do to help anyone? He sighed, at a loss.

Then his scar flared up, Sirius' old bedroom dissolving into a dark, high-ceilinged chamber, lit by flickering green lamps in the shape of fire-spitting snakes, while his head was being split in two.

Sirius' mirror fell to the floor, shattering even as Harry bit down into his pillow to keep from screaming.

"_I know where they are, My Lord... If we act fast, you could have them in an hour, maybe two."_

"_Summon Rasmus to my presence. NOW!"_

"_I need a map of Diagon Alley, Master."_

.

* * *

The way to Diagon Alley had gone as smoothly as Molly had dared to hope. Few spared them a glance, fewer still a closer look-- most of the witches and wizards out and about focused instantly on Remus Lupin, werewolf that he was, and overlooked her and the shabbily-dressed boys walking by her side. Remus had suggested it himself, and she was astounded and disgusted both by the predicted reaction: how could he bear going anywhere, if he, as a well-known werewolf, was treated in this fashion wherever he went? Like he was the carrier of a terrible disease-- _all right_, so he _was_. But that didn't excuse everyone from treating him like he were about to bite anyone in sight.

They walked, mostly in a tense silence, towards Gringotts, passing Order members stationed all over the place, all of whom were helping her with her shopping in addition to watching the street, which was as busy as ever, despite the dangers of the times. She couldn't help noticing that most of the people around for their shopping were purebloods, however; the Muggle-borns and half-bloods had reasons to stay away from this, and possibly also every other, magical place.

Tonks, in the guise of a hunchbacked hag, offered them multicoloured toenails and gave them the all-clear to continue to the bank from her post at the entrance of Knockturn Alley-- "Five to a Sickle, and go right ahead, it's all covered. I'll give you this large thumbnail if you buy two bags full-- perfect for seasoning salmon fillet, nyah, nyah..."-- and thus they crossed the sets of doors into Gringotts, where Bill nodded his all-clear as he walked past them to go to Flourish and Blott's, a scroll under his arm.

None of them noticed, as they walked into the bank, that behind them all along the alley, not one Order member remained at their assigned posts any longer; Tonks' abandoned basket of toenails was being fought over by a short, drunken-looking wizard with a red nose, and an emaciated, straggly old witch.

"We're nearly done," Molly told the boys reassuringly as they crossed the great marble hall, getting a half-nod in return; they made her uneasy, walking along with an easy, smooth sort of stride, yet wholly alert and ready for a fight-- so unlike youths their age ought to behave. They didn't even look nervous, where she was jumpy and dreading an attack at every turn.

The weighing of the wands took a few eternally long moments; three Goblins examined each wand separately, staring at their owners suspiciously, and reading an old scroll, wherein Old McAlpin had designed Chris and Connor as his heirs. Molly was too absorbed in the procedure, which she had only heard about from Bill, to notice how one of the twins went deathly pale, gripping the counter for support and stiffening... It was over in the space of a moment or two, though the blood did not return to his face.

"We have to go," he muttered at a mumble, looking unsteadily at Molly, then at the exit, where nothing unusual was going on. Molly opened her mouth to ask what the matter was, but...

"The wands are genuine," a goblin named Griphook said to the Head Goblin, handing the wands to their owners, drawing a lamp from underneath his counter, and hopping off his stool to waddle to the docking station, where they'd take a cart to the deepest, oldest of vaults.

"We'll go back as soon as we finish here," Molly assured Connor, mistaking his expression and behaviour for nerves and illness. He wasn't fully healed, was he? Neither of them was. "You'll get to rest all afternoon, dear. It'll be over soon."

"But--" Connor's protests --soon joined by his brother's-- went unheard. Instead, she ushered them hurriedly after the goblin, with what she hoped to be comforting, reassuring words. In the vaults, they'd be safe; besides, it was not surprising that the boys would be apprehensive about being out in the open, what after that dreadful attack.

As they were settling into the cart, Molly breathed a sigh of relief; here, they couldn't be touched. Here, they were safe as they could be-- no Death Eater would ever _dare_ attack Gringotts.

Not in their wildest dreams.

No Death Eater was that _stupid_.

"There, there, Connor," she said kindly to the boy, who looked close to being sick. "It'll be over in a blinking... It's only a bit of a bumpy ride. Why don't you think of what you'll do with all that gold instead of fretting?"

She never saw the black-robed figures striding down the busy alley, never heard the panicked cries of witches and wizards, never heard the blasts coming from the Twins' shop.

.

* * *

"Charlie!"

Harry stumbled unsteadily down the stairs, one hand clasped on his forehead, the other flailing blindly to grab hold of the banister as he went, nearly tumbling down the stairs every other step.

"_Charlie_!" They needed to go to Diagon Alley, and they had to go ten minutes ago.

There was no answer; Harry reached the second floor landing, tripping over his feet in his urgency and crashing down. His vision was swimming, head spinning and movements uncoordinated as anything-- but there was no time to wait for his body to get back in gear. The Death Eaters had found out-- Snape had told them _exactly_ what the Order was up to, was telling Voldemort and that nutter all about it _now_.

"Ah, bloody-- _CHARLIE_!"

"What is it?" Charlie's voice trailed up from below, alarmed and confused, setting the portrait off, even as Harry hurtled down the last flight of stairs, crashing into him and sending them both flying.

"They're in Diagon Alley," Harry said breathlessly, raffling himself up and coming to a very unsteady stand. "SHUT UP YOU OLD HAG! They're in Diagon Alley," he repeated, as the insults to every last member of the halfbreed race cut off. "The Death Eaters-- They know where everyone is, they're taking them out and going to Gringotts! We have to stop them! We have to warn them!"

"What on earth are you on about?"

"Bloody hell, Charlie, we don't have any time! Snape told them! He told Voldemort--" Charlie flinched back as if struck. Harry ignored it. "Snape-- Snape told the Death Eaters where everyone is! He's got a map, he was telling Vol--you know-- He was telling them where everyone is, they're going to get the McAlpins now!"

"You... _saw_ that?" Charlie asked, steadying Harry but not rushing out to Diagon Alley. Instead, he gave Harry an intent, sharp look that did but little to cover up his misgivings on the matter.

Harry's patience was shot, though. He had no time for this; He was _sure_ of what he'd seen, could _feel_ Voldemort's anticipation seep through him like a bath of acid.

"_Yes_!" he yelled, increasingly frantic. A wild thought occurred to him, one he had not entertained in a while; if Charlie wasn't going to help, he wouldn't waste his spit with him anymore-- he'd go there himself.

"We have to warn them at least-- they're taking everyone out_, they'll ambush them in Gringotts_!" he snapped, pushing past Charlie to the kitchen. He'd floo there, then fly.

Yeah, that sounded like the fastest option so far...

"Harry, _wait_!" Charlie grabbed him by the arm, both preventing Harry from tripping down the kitchen stairs, and from getting to the kitchen altogether. His scar gave a searing jab, making him hiss in pain.

"Look, I don't know what you saw-- but we're not going anywhere. Much less you! Much less," Charlie added forcefully, "to Diagon Alley. Over half the Order is out there, they know what they're doing--"

"They'll all get _KILLED_! Don't you get it? Snape _told Voldemort their exact positions_! He's sending all his Death Eaters over! WE HAVE TO GO NOW!"

"We're not going just because you _think_ you saw--"

"Sod this," Harry muttered. He'd had enough. Twisting away from Charlie's grip, he stumbled to the kitchen, heading straight for the jar of Floo Powder, righting his crooked glasses as he went. If Charlie wasn't going to help...

"HARRY, _DON'T_!"

Too late, Charlie.

"Piss off."

Green flames flared up-- Harry checked the pockets of his bathrobe for his Emergency Escape Kit-- and all but jumped into the grate.

"DIAGON ALLEY!"

And he was gone.

"_Shite_." Charlie's fervid curse was heard, but it didn't change the situation. He cursed again, apparating out after him.

.

* * *

TBC.


	21. According to Plan

**Disclaimer: **The Harry Potter universe, characters, situations, et cetera aren't mine. Neither are the things you might recognise from other fics; everything else is mine, precioussss. I'm not getting any money out of this fan fiction either, I have other means to sustain self. This is just for fun, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**A/N: **This one was almost two years in coming, but now I have my muse back and safely tucked under my pillow, I hope I'll finish this fic this year. I'm already working on the sequel (yes, I am that bonkers), so that's an added incentive to finish Time sooner. Thanks for sticking around so long, and I hope you like this chapter as much as I do. Because I love this one, for some reason.

* * *

**Chapter 21**

**According to Plan**

Rasmus licked his lips in anticipation; everything was going smoothly. He had managed to set up quite the little operation, in spite of the short notice.

Mere moments ago, he had been bored stiff – but all of that had changed, miraculously, with Snape's last message, which had finally yielded some decent information.

The McAlpin boys, all but vanished from the face of the earth for a handful of days, were, apparently, making a foray into the outer world. It did truly surprise him; after having scoured half the British Isles for them, there had been not a sign of them – and yet, Snape's message had been clear: the boys and some of the Order to watch them would be going to Gringotts, to settle something about Old McAlpin's will.

It could not have been more convenient for a bored soul like Rasmus'.

He watched the Death Eaters start mingling with the apprehensive crowd that had ventured out on this day, driven to do their shopping by need, no doubt – few dared to visit magical centres such as Diagon Alley openly of late. Nowhere was safe, and the greater portion of the country's wizarding population was cowed by the force of old memories alone.

_Cowards_.

His focus was not on the average magical populace hurrying along, however. They were minding their business, and it was as far removed from his own as he could think of. Instead, he followed the Death Eaters' progress across the Alley, as they reached their hastily decided positions, awaiting his signal to attack.

Finally, they were starting to understand what it truly meant to follow orders.

Snape's message was further confirmed by what Rasmus had seen for himself since he arrived; the gradual appearance of the Order, or at least, of some witches and wizards he remembered encountering in battle before, whom he had been endeavouring to observe, and whose presence here, he was sure, was not unwarranted.

Still, he had to wait a full hour for something remotely interesting to happen.

Shortly before noon, he watched them arrive, flanked by the werewolf and a dumpy, red-haired witch whom he recognised as Weasley's wife – her brothers _had_ been excellent fighters, yes, but would she rise to the challenge?

He would find out soon enough.

"They're headed for Gringotts," he murmured, addressing Bellatrix without bothering to turn to look at her. "We shall cut them off upon leaving. Tell the rest to remain unseen." There was no need to face her to see her hungry grimace of a smirk, as she too, hungrily followed the boys' progress along the street, touching her Mark to convey the new instructions to the rest.

Instantly, the dark figures dotting the way to the bank retreated to the more secluded corners of the Alley, like so many shadows lurking unseen and unnoticed by even Moody's watchful eye. They had been extremely careful, after all, even though the plan had been made on the fly.

Improvisation was something Rasmus excelled at – and he had to admit that, when spurred on by fear of their Lord, the Death Eaters could indeed turn out to be above-average help. There were no trademark silver masks this time, and everyone had taken Polyjuice Potion to further prevent recognition. Not to mention, Snape's information had proven extremely accurate: the positions of every last Order member were precise to a tee.

Ah, if every day could be like this one...

His attention shifted to the McAlpin boys, his present targets, who were striding ahead amidst the growing circle of their protectors. They did not seem to be too reliant on the Order, who were dogging their every step; any other child would have been less wary, as Rasmus knew from experience. These two, however, were as alert as though they were there on their own and under attack already.

Rasmus allotted them two awareness points each.

They had changed quite remarkably since their last encounter, and Rasmus did not miss the pallor of their faces, or the keen alertness of their eyes as they passed right past the apothecary, which Rasmus was using as an outpost. They did not seem half as apprehensive as the crowd milling about either, and it made Rasmus smile. Confidence and fearlessness, he valued both traits in an adversary, and these two could just be what he had been waiting for – he'd never much cared for taking age into account when battling anyone; prodigies were hard to come by, and so much fun to battle against.

He saw them alternately look left and right, in that maddeningly familiar way he could not for the life of him place, no matter how hard he racked his brains; every motion, every feature was engraved in his mind, and for some reason, made him itch to hex them unawares... Made him _nervous_, of all things. As though he – or part of him at least – _knew _he did not stand a chance should he try for an open attack. Then again, he was _certain_ he had never seen either of the boys before in his life. It was maddening, and he basked in this so very alien feeling of uncertainty.

He did, however, remember to duck out of the way as the boys' roving eyes went upwards as one, scanning the rooftops of the shops for any kind of danger and sweeping past his watch post without spotting him. Those two were waiting for his attack, it seemed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Which, Rasmus mused, was probably true.

Old McAlpin had done a wicked job at training them, hadn't he?

And Rasmus, for so long forced to do jobs well beneath his skill, had a sudden epiphany. Not that it showed, of course; any watchful observer would merely have seen a spark brightening his eyes for a split second, nothing more. Deep within him, though, hope flared up: with luck, these two would not disappoint.

"Let them enter the bank," he murmured to Bellatrix. "Send the foremost team in after them to take Gringotts, we can take them while they are in the vaults – have the rest take out everyone else who remains outdoors as soon as they get into the carts. I don't want any sort of annoying interference." If all went according to plan, there would be no warning at all, no help, nowhere to run – and in an hour's time at the most, Voldemort would have his new body... and Rasmus would have his toy.

_Ah, but isn't life exciting?_

The Death Eaters started moving again as soon as the group had entered the bank, as they had been instructed.

Seconds later, they could be seen sweeping the Alley, shadows of darkness engulfing the – severely outnumbered – Order, while a group hurried into the bank to ensure nobody would get inside after the boys had entered.

Rasmus left his lofty post, sporting a rare smile on his face, even as panicked screaming, urgent shouting, and the beams of spells began to rip the tense air filling Diagon Alley apart.

Spells whizzing past on either side of him, he stretched leisurely, surveying the damage quickly spreading throughout the length of the winding street below.

It was time.

* * *

He'd never been a big fan of Floo travel, but it wasn't to be avoided – with Charlie all but refusing to listen, what else could he possibly do? He hadn't a clue as to how to Apparate yet, though he figured it might be handier than spinning round and round until his stomach was churning, breathing in ashes and dust, only able to get blurry glimpses of fireplaces every time he cracked an eye open.

He couldn't remember Floo travel ever to last so long, particularly as Grimmauld Place was in Islington, and thus not all that far away from the Leaky Cauldron...

Had he screwed it up again?

There was no time to lose, _gah_!

The very instant the mad spinning came to a halt, Harry toppled out of the grate, landing smack on the worn rug of what he recognised with relief was the Leaky Cauldron. He staggered to his feet, which he only now noticed were bare, adjusting his smudged glasses on his face – but it only brought the parlour of the inn into view for a moment. The next instant, there was a _bang_, and Charlie was suddenly blocking the way, red in the face and furious.

Harry made to push him aside, but as he tried to stumble past, his arm was held in a vice of a grip.

"Keep your head down," Charlie hissed, slapping Harry's dressing gown hood over his head and looking at him in outrage. "Of all the stupid things you could have done— you're in your pyjamas, dammit!"

"Death Eaters," Harry hissed back, freeing himself from Charlie's hold and glaring back as fiercely as the red-headed wizard was. Dress codes were not amongst his present priorities. "Out _there_, can't you bloody _hear_? Just listen!"

And sure enough, barely-muffled screams and blasts could be heard from outside – this was also probably the cause for the panicked crowd of people trying to squeeze their way out through the courtyard, steamrollering each other in their frantic bid to get back into the Cauldron and out of danger.

It was evident that Charlie hadn't noticed them until now, and to judge by the way all colour drained from his face, he had only just become aware of the matter at hand.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, sounding frighteningly like Ron to Harry's ears. Harry didn't need to hear the words to make out Charlie's thoughts – they were entirely too similar to his own; where were the others? Could they even hold out hope that they were alright?

"Told you," he muttered grimly, striding towards the door to the courtyard and wondering why he hadn't taken a minute to at least put on some shoes. And how in the seven circles of hell could they make it to Diagon Alley through here, when everyone who'd been out there, it seemed, was pushing the opposite way at the same time.

Everyone, that was, except the very people Harry was worrying about the most. Not one familiar face could be seen in the throng of wizards and witches shoving frantically this way and that, piling into the Cauldron in a panic.

"We have to—" he started urgently, but Charlie cut him off, swearing at the crowd at mid-voice. Clearly, he had forgotten all about minding Harry and dragging him back to Headquarters unseen, and was finally on the same page as him.

"Mum's going to kill me."

Before Harry could wonder what that meant, much less _hope_ for Mrs. Weasley to be alright enough to kill _anyone_ later, Charlie packed him by the arm again. There was a very strange sensation, like he was being siphoned through a very small tube, which proved almost as unpleasant as Floo had been not moments before – and they were suddenly outdoors, looking in on a scene that was frighteningly similar to Harry's nightmares of late.

* * *

"Don't you worry, dear," Mrs. Weasley reassured Connor yet again, patting his arm in a way that would have been comforting had he been used to it; the McAlpin family had never really been one for mollycoddling, or for offering comfort when there was none to be had. Things had always been set down as they were, cold, hard facts given to them in the most straightforward fashion since they were little, and Connor preferred it that way. Looking at Chris, he could see the other thought the same, though how he could be _amused_ by it of all things, Connor could not really understand.

He was worried and tense, an obvious reaction to being led down the cavernous, roughly-hewn tunnels that led to the vaults. He'd been to Gringotts only thrice in his life, every time with their Grams, and though those visits _had_ been fun, today's visit only brought back memories of a time when things had been so much better.

Now, unfamiliar territory of any kind, particularly the sort that came with an absolute lack of control or knowledge as to where they were going, was about as welcome to Connor as red mange.

"Try and enjoy yourselves, dears," Mrs. Weasley encouraged them both, as they climbed into the cart after the goblin, a tiny greenish one who wore a bit of an overlarge suit and went by the name of Grapple, and who seemed to be rather younger than most others they'd seen so far.

Chris snorted his answer for the both of them, as Connor handed the goblin the lamp and lowered himself rather stiffly onto the front seat. Somehow, they'd both expected to see the Diagon Alley they remembered from a couple of years ago, not this sort of atmosphere, where fear and dread hung in the air as thickly as cobwebs, giving a distant, surreal feel to the entire street, which once again brought the fact down full force that things had changed.

Connor wasn't a stranger to change; sometimes, things simply did. Other times, they got turned all topsy-turvy, like this go round. This was the sort of change he dreaded, and yet, it was staring right back at him everywhere he looked.

And it was an unpleasant reminder of just how much they'd lost – if his Gramps or Auntie Jeanie, or even Rob were here, it would be worlds different.

Then again, what they'd come here for couldn't ever be termed as remotely enjoyable; they'd been identified as Gramps' and the entire McAlpin family's last living heirs, and now had to go ogle the gold and assets they had, before they went back to their father's old house to slowly lose their minds again.

The goblins had gone through the paperwork without the slightest shred of condolence or even interest, which made things all the harder; they had had to sit through a session with a floppy-eared fellow who listed the names, ages, causes and dates of death of their entire family and struck the names through with a red crayon with the enthusiasm of someone forced to watch the grass grow.

Neither of them had felt the sheer finality of their every loved one's deaths as strongly as now, and it was numbing, raw emotions clashing with the constant, draining need for alertness – how could they possibly even begin to _enjoy _anything like this trip?

They waited for Mrs. Weasley and Remus to clamber into the cart as well before it set into motion with a jerk and no warning, rattling loudly in the cavernous depths of the underground network of rails in its mad race. Chris and Connor silently agreed upon the fact that this was the first mildly enjoyable thing that had happened in a while, as they zoomed and rattled and clunked their way ever deeper into a black chasm at breakneck speed, icy air hitting their faces, bringing up a musty smell here and there. For all her encouraging words, Mrs. Weasley seemed pretty lousy at following her own advice. She didn't look remotely amused, and was clutching her side of the cart for all she was worth while holding her purple bonnet with her free hand. Nexto to her, even Remus looked dizzy.

Behind them, a handful of minutes later, another cart was set into motion, to follow them to whichever vault they were going, and in it, four individuals and one goblin also travelled, though theirs was a far more excited group. One of them at least, was as close to boiling over with excitement as he ever got.

"They won't stand a chance," Rasmus stated ferally, wand held against the terrified goblin's head as he tried to pierce the darkness to catch a glimpse of the cart they were following. He could not see it, but he could hear it rattling its way up ahead. Victory was at his fingertips – and he was having more fun than he'd had all week. Perhaps he ought to devise twisted schemes like this one more often?

* * *

Diagon Alley was chaotic mess as far as he could see; beams of spells rent the air, which was thick with smoke and panicked screams. Wherever they looked, chaos and destruction leered back, bodies, or parts of bodies littered the cobbled streets that looked nothing like what Harry remembered. Shops were on fire, witches and wizards of all ages ran for their lives, stumbling and tripping over the debris in a frenzied panic.

"Bloody." Charlie breathed, eyes wide and pushing Harry behind what was left of a shop, trying, just as Harry was, to make out something useful amidst the chaos.

"No kidding." There was no time to waste, and though he could see Moody battling two black-robed Death Eaters over there next to Fortescue's, and Hestia propelling another one through the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, there was no sign of the twins, of Mrs. Weasley, or – Harry swallowed, squinting to make something out – Remus. Charlie, he knew, was scanning what he could see of the street too, with the same results.

Or maybe not.

_Where are you?_ He thought frantically, wiping his glasses clean the better to see. Only, he couldn't see much of anything even when they were clean.

Unbidden, images flared up, familiar and completely alien all at once-- A goblin, tracing a large red crayon over a list of names, crossing each out in turn, the distinct sensation of nostalgia and loss... Movement towards the carts that took you to the vaults.

Then it hit him.

"The bank," Harry said suddenly, but the certainty of his tone took him by surprise. Not that he dwelled on it – time was something they didn't have to spare. "They're at Gringotts." The words just spilled out of him like anything. And yet, they were true, he just _knew_ it.

Charlie blinked.

"And you know that how?" he asked, as Harry tried to duck into the street, prevented from doing so by a large boulder flying straight into the wall a few inches from his face and shattering to pieces.

"They're at Gringotts," Harry told the flabbergasted wizard next to him again, shaking rubble out of his face and hurriedly wiping his glasses once again. "I just know it, alright? We have to get there before the Death Eaters do."

"Aye, Capt'n Obvious," Charlie shot back. "We're in the middle of a _battle_. How do you intend to do it?"

* * *

"_Fly, you fool!_" Sirius shouted in reponse to Charlie's question, not giving a right care that the only ones capable of hearing him were James and the rest. He was excited, battles had always had that effect on him, and death had changed it not a whit. A few yards away, James' laugh was the only answer he received; Harry was being dragged aside by Charlie Weasley, which might have been alright by him any other time, but now was just an added encumbrance.

"Come on, Weasley you moron, there's no _time_!" Sirius gesticulated in the air; as if that could suffice to get them going. In the past, when he had still been alive, he hadn't had kids – or hadn't known about them, rather – so Harry would have been his only concern, and he'd have been congratulating the Weasley in question for looking after him so well.

Now though... Now things were very different. Sirius' priorities had a different order, he was the – almost indecently – proud father of the most brilliant boys ever to step on the earth, who incidentally happened to share a burden as terrible as Harry's, and who were presently in deep trouble. Or as deep as...

"Thanatovich got on a second cart," a blonde witch with dark green eyes informed breathlessly the second she appeared next to him out of thin air, making Sirius divert his attention from the battle and to her. For over a decade they had been apart, and for that time, Sirius had been a mess. Now though, they were together again; upon dying, he had remembered everything he'd forgotten – or rather, had been made to forget – and he was whole at an entirely different level. Now, he understood... And he was no longer alone. Both things were very good to have right now.

"That bastard," Sirius replied. Nina wasn't really listening.

"He'll surely catch up," she said, peering through a wall at Charlie and Harry. "What's taking them so long?"

"Harry's having a spot of bother convincing his minder, honey," Sirius informed, receiving a disbelieving look for an answer and shrugging in response. "Or himself, I'm not too sure. They're sort of stuck, see?"

He _was_ worried, of course. How could he not be, seeing the humongous mess this living lot had landed themselves in? Those were _his_ kids being hunted without so much as a warning, after all, his and nobody else's.

Well... So _alright_.

So they were Nina's too, to be fair, but then, she'd watched over them all their lives, just like James and Lily had done. To Sirius, his offspring was still the newest, shiniest, most interesting and wicked thing _ever_. And they were ultimately _his_, like it or not – and he was very well aware that the said offspring wasn't too happy about him being their dad.

But still, that was how the biscuit crumbled. Sirius had_ had_ to go do what he did, just as James and Lily and Nina went and did their part in the whole stupid prophecy scheme. He wasn't going to ask his kids to take any of that in stride, of course, much less to understand his point of view out of the blue, much less when he had -- as yet -- no way to communicate with them at all.

And what could he tell them to make them understand? They wouldn't so easily, not if they were anything like him; he had, after all, needed twelve years under the worst-possible conditions to so much as want to ponder the matter of him having to live when everyone else got to die, and everything that came with the package. And maybe Sirius didn't know his boys as Nina or even James or Lily did, but he did know that much: they would take a hell of a lot of convincing to so much as want to listen to reason, if and when they managed to get in touch with them.

It _was _a bit sad if he thought about it; none of the others had missed a thing about his lads' lives; not their first words ("Yabba," according to James, which Lily and Nina still argued was not even a word, and which Sirius secretly agreed with, but which James in turn argued was merely the product of jealousy, as neither of the girls had been around when it happened); not their first steps, or their first flight on a broomstick, or even the first time they'd charmed Angus' hair off – they _knew_ the boys, while Sirius had missed _everything_.

He had missed it all because he had _had_ to play his part in the game, had been forced to choose leaving them behind for the sodding greater good, and having heard all about most of it did not in any way make things easier on him. The only thing he _could _do, the only thing he was doing, was not miss on anything at all from here on out.

He owed his boys, and, though he wouldn't ever openly admit it, he owed himself as well - he'd given up so much in exchange for less than nothing, and he'd do the impossible to get it back. All of it; being dead didn't change things one jot.

"Come on already, snap out of it and get a broom out, dammit!" He yelled at Harry and Charlie, but received no response, as per usual. Next to him, Nina was shouting at Harry as much as he was, and no less vehement about it – though she was worlds away from excitement, herself. Nina, Sirius noted, was frantic with worry.

"They're almost at the vault!" she was snapping at them, as though they could hear her. "Hurry up already!"

This made Sirius think that maybe it would be a bit more than the narrow shave he had bet James it would be. Suddenly, he felt a twinge of worry twist at his guts.

"You heard the lady, now _get to it_!"

Theirs were not the only voices that went unheard by the living – the entire Alley was crawling with the dead (both new and old): Sirius could see James a little further ahead, hollering news about the new developments at the crossing of Knockturn Alley; Fabian and Gideon were on a rooftop, playing information service to everyone who was on the ground – where visibility was greatly impaired due to the bits of buildings – and body parts – flying about – Ben Fenwick and Marlene were shouting at the top of their lungs somewhere behind him, Angus had gone on ahead to Gringotts, and even Uncle Alfie had come along. He was observing more than he was yelling, pulling faces at the living to see if anyone could see him at all.

All of this was a part of Sirius' plan to start communicating with the living - maybe there was a True Seer around, and they certainly could use his or her help...

Not that anything they were doing was helping anyone much.

With growing frustration, Sirius watched Charlie and Harry try for a ground-based approach, which only translated into both having to roll and duck and dodge a whole lot.

It looked flashy, yes, but did not help them get much closer to the wizarding bank than they had gone so far.

"_Use-the-brooms_!" Sirius bellowed at them, completely unruffled by the Severing Charm that went right through him and bounced off a wall not inches away from Charlie's face. Harry was shouting something that sounded suspiciously like a bout of highly creative swearing, as he dragged the older Weasley aside a split second before a Reductor Curse hit him in the head.

"Sirius Black! I hope you didn't teach him that one!" trailed to him from overhead.

"No Lily, I reckon he learned _that one_ all by himself," Sirius replied with a laugh, peering through a wall to see what was around the corner. Harry's foul language was the least of his present worries. "Now, if _your_ kid could get a move on to go rescue mine..."

"He's not even properly dressed!" Lily exclaimed, as Harry hopped furiously from one foot to the other, to get them away from the flying debris.

"Nope," Sirius told her, hopping from one foot to the other as well, in sympathy or worry, Lily couldn't tell. "I like it. Very Arthur Dent. You should read that book, Lils, it's a good read -- NOW COULD YOU GET THOSE BROOMS OUT AND GET A MOVE ON?" he bellowed at Harry and Charlie.

They just responded by putting up shields, and dodging a few more curses.

* * *

Harry dragged Charlie away from yet another Reductor Curse, right hand buried deep in his pocket, rummaging in the bag the Twins had sent him, out of reflex rather than purpose.

His mind was racing, trying to think of ways to get to Gringott's as soon as possible and in one piece, but it was turning frenzied circles more than it was helping him. He could _feel _it running around inside his skull.

"Bugger, what _now_?" Charlie was snarling, sending spells at the Death Eaters at random. Sweat was trickling down his face, over-bright eyes scanning their surroundings for familiar faces, or an opening through which they could perhaps shift closer, something, _anything_—

"Er." Harry muttered. He was at a loss; and, as nothing his mind could provide was useful, he decided to rely on touch for ideas, rummaging inside the Twins' case some more. And they weren't long in coming.

Fingers closed around one handle, then found the other, inside his pocket.

Inspiration struck.

_Of course!_ He could have kicked himself.

He pulled both broomsticks out together, pressing Sirius' Firebolt into a very baffled Charlie's hands.

"How'd you—"

"There's still a chance! I'll explain later – _C'mon_!"

They mounted as one, taking off amidst a hail of spells and flying towards the wizarding bank so fast they were little more than blurs in the smoke.

"Finally!" yelled a chorus of voices, but they were unheard by the living. Still, the dead were quite pleased with the change of pace they were getting to witness.

"That's _my boy_!" shouted James gleefully, at the same time as Sirius went, every bit as proudly, "That's _my godson_!"

"Go get them, Harry!" they chorused as one, laughing as they followed him and Charlie in their mad race to get to the Gringotts vaults.

"Ah, bloody," Harry spat, coughing in the smoke as he reached the double doors.

They were on fire.

* * *

"What now?" Charlie shouted at Harry over the din, even if he was less than a foot away. Death Eaters were milling around the once stunningly impressive entrance of the ancient bank, and spells and debris did not stop flying.

"They're... they're inside!" Harry shouted back. "In the vaults!"

"How can we—"

"Over there!" Harry interrupted, pointing at what Charlie knew was the entrance to the vaults. "They're in a second cart, following. They'll kill them, they don't know they're coming! Come _on_!"

"Harry, nobody's ever flown in there, you're talking crazy—_Oy! Wait up_!"

Cursing, Charlie followed Harry as he swooped down and inside the wizarding bank. Inside, the chaos continued, Death Eaters spotted them and shot spells at them in quick succession, which both of them dodged and rolled their way out of.

"This way!" Harry shouted, turning a sharp right and narrowly clearing the entrance to the vaults.

A blast of cold wind and utter darkness greeted them.

"Stop! Stop!" Harry bellowed, now having to dodge Charlie, who had followed his exact path. He grabbed the handle of the broomstick, making him come to a sudden halt.

"Any more grand ideas?" Charlie asked, panting. "I can't see for bugger all."

"Hold on," snapped Harry, pulling out his wand and tapping Charlie's head with it, before following up and tapping his own. Suddenly the darkness became visible, and looking at Harry, Charlie could see his eyes had acquired a silvery hue.

"Night-vision charm," Harry said for an explanation, catching his breath. "They've gone down in a second cart," he added, pointing at the rails up ahead. "The twins' vault is vault number one, so I'm perhaps right in guessing it's very deep down... We have to catch up, those Death Eaters won't leave anyone alive."

"How do you know? Was it another of your visions?"

"Yes! No! It's— I just _know_, alright?" Harry said angrily. What he said next, though, came out in a dead grave tone. "You'll just have to trust me. There is still time, Charlie. We can _still _do this. We'll follow them down to the vault. But you have to trust me."

"You're out of your mind, Harry," Charlie said. "Right round the bend."

But he was grinning.

Harry let out a relieved chuckle.

"Do you reckon you can keep up?" he asked instead, not waiting for Charlie's nod before he took off as fast as the Firebolt would allow. "It's this way!"

Charlie chuckled again in complete disbelief, but he too, took off into the depths of the tunnel after Harry. How Harry was capable of picking his way through the dark tunnels at that speed, moreover, how Harry knew where to go with such certainty, was lost on Charlie. However, he followed him closely, teeth gnashing together as they wove their way in and out of stalagmites and other cart railways, going ever deeper, ever faster—

Next to them, gliding idly along at an impossible speed and completely unbothered by the many stalactites and stalagmites they were going through, Sirius and James were placing bets on whether or not Charlie would manage to keep up with Harry.

"He was Seeker for Gryffindor in his school days," Sirius argued.

"Yeah, but that was like, a hundred years ago. Reflexes that aren't honed simply die," James argued back. Sirius wouldn't have anything of it.

"Bet you three hundred and fifty-two Galleons that he makes it there in one piece," he said. "It's like saying you lost your skill because you left school."

"No, I lost my skill because I died," James said flippantly. "But have it your way. Three hundred and fifty-two G's, mate, and this time, I'm so cashing in!"

"Just you wait, Potter. Never underestimate the one Weasley worth knowing. Aside from the Twins of course. And Bill, maybe. And..."

It was, perhaps, a good thing the living couldn't hear them. They'd have been very distracting.

"Sharp left!" Harry shouted. Already he could see the beams of spells up ahead, and past the rushing in his ears, he could hear the rattling noises of the carts they were trying to catch up with. It was madness. He had no clue what was guiding him, it was more instinct than logic – but he was thankful that this time, this once, instinct or whatever it was had not failed him. This time, he hadn't been wrong, although it was still a potentially deadly situation...

"They're nearly at the vault!" Harry shouted, wand already aiming at the Death Eaters in the cart up ahead. "Get them off that cart!"

Behind him, Charlie was already firing spells at the Death Eaters. One of them turned around, and Harry recognised the madman from weeks before. Fear clashed with adrenalin, anger, outright rage. Without a thought, Harry sped up further, rolling and dodging several protruding rocks. However jolty the race, Harry's wand was steady, aimed right at Thanatovich's head. The spell that left him, without further thought, reflected just how much he had changed over the holidays.

"_Sectumsempra_!"

* * *

TBC.

Next up: The conclusion of the Battle of Gringotts. R&R and all that jazz.


End file.
